


Moving Color

by Dracoduceus



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author talks too much about food, Beacon is not amused, Biblical References, Canon-Typical Violence, Characters and Pairings to be added as story progresses, Hand-wavey future sight, Horror Elements, Mentions of Sex, Non-Explicit Nudity, Original Abominations, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-12-26 03:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18275099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracoduceus/pseuds/Dracoduceus
Summary: They say that a hero's job is never easy.It also is a full-time gig.Just when they thought they had a break, a chance to recover and regroup, everything goes to hell in a hand basket.Agent Stern continues his investigation into the evidence of Bigfoot's presence in Kepler. The shadows move and watch with eyes that aren't meant to be there.Things are definitely no longer what they seem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FaiaHae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaHae/gifts).



> Because Fai told me to. 
> 
> And because they know how to get me to do things. I'm not even sure if it's inspiration anymore...I think they just goad me into doing stuff XD
> 
> The premise of this story is based on a short story I wrote in college that I had always wanted to play with. I had toyed around with it a little bit for a NaNoWriMo project but it wasn't...quite what I had wanted. Since Fai had been bugging me to catch up on TAZ ~~(and after an exceptionally terrible week)~~ I had started toying around with the start of this particular story. 
> 
> And now we're here. I'm really tired. I hope you enjoy.

The neon sign Coyote Tattoos was off when Agent Stern stepped out of his rented car, but the hanging sign on the door read “OPEN” and he could see people moving around behind the darkened windows.

Despite himself he was nervous, but it was an eager kind of nervousness. What would he find? Skulls? Crosses? Satanic symbols? Or would there be pinups coating the walls with women bent horrifically out of proportion to emphasize the curves that men lusted after?

Would the artist he went to find—a fellow that everyone referred to as Peapod, or sometimes just Pea or Pod—be the stereotypical tattoo grunt? Built like something out of a cartoon, with a thick beard and a bald head and more tattoos than Stern could count? Piercings in his nose and eyebrows and lips and all over his ears, thick black eyeliner?

Even as he thought of it, Stern laughed to himself. His idea of what a tattoo artist should be was borne of media depictions and an archaic ideal of tattoos. These days _most_ people had some form of tattoo.

Hell, some people were getting their needs tattooed on their skin: “DNR”, “Heat Monitor” or “Pacemaker”, “Allergic to Penicillin”.

This Peapod person was probably very normal-looking by today’s standards. At least for the layperson—Peapod probably would stand out quite a bit among the suits and ties of the FBI.

Agent Stern paused as he approached the doors. He was ashamed that he had only just noticed the bent metal bike racks and the long line of motorbikes chained there. It was easy to guess who they were: the Hornets logo was emblazoned on each bike.

The Hornets weren’t a _gang_ , but from what he had gathered thus far, they were still a large group of rather tough individuals for all they were “only” extreme sports enthusiasts. He didn’t want to get tangled with them, but it seemed that he couldn’t avoid it.

Not when he wanted to speak to this Peapod.

Hoping that he didn’t look as awkward as he felt, he opened the door.

It was a well-lit shop despite the darkened windows. There was a neat desk with appointment books, a newer computer with a drawing tablet attached, and assorted sketch books tied shut by satin ribbons. A waist high partition separated the front area from the back, forming a waiting room of sorts; there were comfortable-looking chairs and low tables for guests as well as photo albums opened to random pages. It looked like examples of Peapod’s art, judging what he could see: pages from sketchbooks, pictures of tattoos, preserved prints of patterns next to the matching tattoos.

The saloon-style doors on the partition were held open by bungee cords, allowing the group of Hornets to spill in to the working area. A few of them were in the waiting area and peered suspiciously at Stern when he entered. “Yeah?” one of them asked, edging toward the desk at the front. “What do you want?”

“Manners,” another snapped and looked up and down at Stern. Despite his chiding, he was just as brusque. “You’re new. What do you need?”

Unnerved and trying to hide it, Stern tried to peer past them into the rest of the shop but didn’t get very far with the big burly Hornet blocking the way. “I was looking to speak with the artist called ‘Peapod’,” he said carefully. “Is he here?”

“Wouldn’t be open otherwise,” the first one near the desk said.

The other looked over his shoulder toward the working area and called over the distant buzzing of what Stern assumed was the tattoo gun, “’Ey Pod! You got a suit here askin’ for ya.”

A voice that Stern didn’t recognize said, “Then mind your manners, Novoa.”

The big Hornet grumbled and squinted at Stern. “You got a name, suit?”

“ _Novoa!_ ”

“Ha!” the Hornet near the desk mocked. He relaxed but only a little, leaning against the desk. Clearly this artist Peapod had some sway over them if he could set them to rights so easily. “Serves you right.” He squinted at Stern. “You like some tea or somethin’? Pod’s always got some hipster shit somewhere around here. Or some water? Too fancy to drink it regular but there’s a lemon one and a cucumber one too.”

The Hornet apparently called Novoa grumbled. “Pod’s gonna be a bit. In the middle of a job.”

“No, thank you,” Stern said to the first Hornet. To Novoa he asked, “Do you know how long he will be?”

Both Hornets peered at him. “ _They_ ,” Novoa said with pointed emphasis. “—have been working for a bit. Shouldn’t take too long.”

The other Hornet cackled. Stern noticed a patch on their jacket of a rat holding a gear above a broken muffler and mentally labelled him “Junk Rat”. “Then again, ‘too long’ might mean something different to you.”

“I’ll wait,” Stern said mildly and found a seat. The chairs were just as comfortable as they looked and sighed as he sat. For a while the Hornets eyed him distrustfully. Junk Rat remained by the desk and Novoa moved to block the opened saloon doors; the rest of the Hornets moved further in the working area, ostensibly away from “the suit”.

He picked up one of the binders and began flipping through them. As if by some cosmic chance, he had found some of the artwork that had led him to this particular shop and this particular artist. He marveled at the incredibly detailed tattoos, naming them as he recognized them: Chupacabra, Mothman, Yeti, Bigfoot, Swamp Ape, a half-transformed werewolf on a jagged cliff howling at the moon.

Glancing at the front of the binder, he found that it was labeled “Cryptid Series” and continued to thumb through the art. Here was a picture of a great bird stretched across a man’s shoulders and another with an Asian-style dragon (Stern could admit to himself that he didn’t know from which Asian culture it came from) twined around an arm.

He was so engrossed in the artwork—such great detail, it was incredible!—that he almost didn’t notice the movement of the Hornets. They milled around, leaving in a great rush led by the enormous Novoa. Soon the waiting area, originally rather spacious, was full of distrustful Hornets.

Moving as slowly as if he were faced with their namesakes, Stern closed the binder and put it down as two more people came out from the working area. The first was another Hornet, their head bandaged—either they were injured or that was where they had gotten a tattoo—and following them was another person, clearly the artist, the one that Stern had been waiting for. Peapod.

 _They_ , as the Hornets had indicated they wanted to be called, was somehow exactly what Stern had expected and yet completely different.

For one they were _young_ , perhaps even younger than the young Aubrey Little at the Amnesty Lodge. Their hair was _purple_ and with it tucked into a messy bun on top of their head, Stern could see that they also had an undercut. Perhaps he was just showing his age but he had never understood the appeal. It looked nice on them, at least.

They had piercings but not nearly as many as he had expected: there were two on their lower lip with bright orange stones, and a few in each ear, but otherwise they seem rather unadorned. As he had expected, the artist had tattoos on their dark skin: geometric designs on their neck (Stern winced to think at how painful that must have been), an incredibly detailed sleeve of a forest scape lit by the full moon.

The Hornet met Stern’s eyes. Their lips, pierced similarly to Peapod’s but featuring only black metal hoops, twitched. “A suit, indeed,” they said, and Stern realized that the voice he had earlier was theirs. “Have my boys been good? Did they offer you a drink?” this was directed pointedly at Junk Rat and Novoa.

“We tried,” Junk Rat whined. “Even offered that hipster gunk with the cucumber.”

Peapod looked over Stern and he shivered when he realized that their eyes were an unnatural shade of green—colored contacts, clearly. “A moment more, if you please,” they said politely enough. “I have a few things I need to tie up before I can assist you, Officer…?”

“ _Agent_ , actually. Agent Stern.”

Peapod’s bright green eyes lingered thoughtfully on him for a moment longer before he nodded. “A moment more, please, Agent Stern.” A few of the Hornets eyed him with even more distrust; he ignored them and nodded once to Peapod.

The Hornet that Peapod had been tattooing—clearly the leader of the group—eyed him before turning away. “Clear out, boys,” they said and the group obeyed. Novoa stood just outside the door like an enormous living gargoyle, watching the proceedings.

“You know the drill,” Peapod told the leader of the Hornets. “Or so I assume. But just in case—”

The leader threw their head back and laughed; outside the Hornets all turned. Stern could see Novoa say something inaudible through the glass and with all of the other Hornets laughing. Then they all began to recite in ragged unison, “ _wash four to six times a day with unscented soap,_ not antibacterial _, dab with clean paper towel to dry. No swimming, no direct sunlight, for two weeks. Lotion with unscented soap but not in excess._ ”

“I think we got it,” the leader of the Hornets said dryly.

Peapod laughed though it was a little tense. They rang the leader of the Hornets up and payment was exchanged; Stern lifted the binder of art into his lap again and flipped through them again. There was incredibly detailed ouroboros, and on the next page was an enormous wolf bound by ribbons; facing it was a small flock of harpies with wings that shone like steel.

“A pleasure as always, Hollis,” Peapod said and Stern looked up. They were coming from behind the desk and clasped the Hornet—Hollis—at the forearm. Hollis gripped them back and looked pointedly at Stern. Peapod gave a slight nod which Hollis returned.

They walked to the door and poked their head out. Making a gesture, they set the remaining Hornets away. Soon the engines were roaring to life and they all thundered away.

“I apologize, Agent Stern,” Peapod said as they approached the table. “How may I assist you today?”

“Just Stern is fine,” he replied as Hollis came back inside. They locked the door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. “I’m not entirely here in official capacity.”

Peapod regarded him shrewdly. “I find that hard to believe,” he said mildly. “Not if you introduced yourself to me as ‘Agent’.”

“Don’t take his bullshit, Pod,” Hollis said. Despite their words they remained polite, looking more annoyed that argumentative for the sake of being difficult.

Agent Stern made a face. “Is ‘Peapod’ your real name?”

“People call me Peapod.”

“May I have your legal name?”

Peapod frowned. “What would you do with it?” they asked. “When you ask that way, you sound like a trickster.”

Agent Stern pulled out the little notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket and thumbed it open. “I prefer to use legal names when I write my notes,” he explained. “And I will, of course redact information as necessary to protect those that I speak to.”

“With a guarantee like that, how can you not agree?” Hollis asked Peapod sarcastically.

Sensing that he had rolled poorly, he made a face and reached into his jacket to pull out his ID badge which he held out for them to look over. “I’m with the FBI, specifically the Unexplained Phenomena taskforce. For the past few weeks I’d been here seeking out information regarding…” he hesitated.

“‘Unexplained phenomena’,” Hollis echoed, clearly the more talkative of the two. “Why don’t you go on and visit the Cryptonomica?”

Stern tucked the badge away. “I’ve tried to speak with Ned Chicane,” he admitted. “But I suspect he’s avoiding me.”

Both Peapod and Hollis looked amused. “With an opening like the one you just gave us, I’m sure he was excited to speak with you.”

“I should perhaps work on that,” Stern agreed. He leaned forward and tapped at the album he had been flipping through. “Truth of the matter was that I hadn’t originally intended to visit you—the tourist area wasn’t quite what I was searching for, you know—but then I noticed that you did more than just tattoos.”

“Get to it,” Hollis grumbled, crossing their arms over their chest impatiently.

Stern nodded. “A video was posted a few weeks, maybe even months at this point, of the Bigfoot. We traced the video’s origin to this area.”

For a long moment, everyone was quiet. Somewhere, Stern could hear water bubbling—possibly a fish tank. “Bigfoot.” Hollis sounded just as disbelieving as everyone else.

“Bigfoot is native to the Pacific Northwest,” Peapod observed. “We are in _West Virginia_.”

“There have been Bigfoot sightings all over the world.”

Peapod shook their head, lifting their hands to their hair. They untied it from its messy bun and let it fall down past their shoulders. “Is that why you’re here?” they asked as they shook their hair out and ran their fingers through it to get it out of their face. “My cryptid series?”

“Your art is very distinct,” Stern told them firmly. “Highly detailed—and in the rare instances where you do similar patterns—” he paused and thumbed through the book, finding the three images of Bigfoot he had found while waiting. “They’re all consistent.”

Suddenly Hollis threw their head back and laughed. “You’re bothering Pod because their art is consistent? Do you think that Pod had…what, saw Bigfoot, hung out with him, and came back to tattoo pictures of him?”

Peapod looked apologetic. “Hollis has a point,” they said gently. “Is that what you think I’ve done?”

“I don’t know,” Stern told them firmly. “I’m just following what leads I have. Do you take hikes? Do you have some kind of inspiration for this version of Bigfoot that you’ve been drawing? Or the others in your cryptid series?”

“If I say that I dreamed them up, will you police my dreams, too?” Peapod asked dryly. “No, Agent Stern, when a customer asks for a piece from me, I do my research and draw the art according to our consultation. If they ask for flash or for something similar that I’ve done for another customer, I do my best to make it consistent but still unique.”

Stern nodded. “I must say, business aside…your artwork is remarkable. So detailed.”

“It’s a gift.”

Hollis laughed. “I don’t think I could bear to get a tattoo from anyone else at this point.” Peapod smiled shyly at them. “Now if that is all, Agent Stern, perhaps I can show you the door.”

“ _Is_ that all, Agent Stern?” Peapod asked.

Sighing, Stern got to his feet, choosing to take the dismissal for what it was. “For now, thank you.”

Peapod walked to the desk and dug around behind it. “Here is a pass for the Cryptonomica,” they said, handing it to Stern. “It’s not _free_ , but it is highly discounted. I don’t work _closely_ with Ned, but we do have a deal that if my customers get a cryptid tattoo, they can get into the Cryptonomica for a reduced rate. That’s where I get some of my inspiration—mostly because it’s so dark in there.”

Thanking them both for their time, Stern left and walked quickly to his rental car. When the door closed behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief. There was just something about Peapod—whatever their real name may be—that unnerved him.

Still…he looked down at the ticket. With it, he would get in to the Cryptonomica for $3—he got that much at least. Scrubbing his face, Stern moved to start the car and paused. There was a shadow on the imposing walls of Coyote Tattoos, a large silhouette of a person.

Shadows do not have faces or eyes with which to see, but Stern had the strange feeling that this one was looking right at him. But shadows also didn’t _watch_ or _look_.

His mouth running dry, he watched the shadow stand there. Then it moved, traveled along the façade of the building with terrifying speed.

Stern noticed that its legs traveled across the parking lot and breathed a shaky laugh at his own folly when he saw that the shadow connected to a person—a normal person that walked at a normal speed across the lot toward the nearby Subway. All very normal things.

Perhaps it was just Peapod’s peculiar style of drawing cryptids—almost hyper realistic, or as much as can be allowed with a tattoo gun on something as imperfect as a living person’s skin—that had set him on edge. He didn’t know.

He watched the man and his shadow walk to the Subway and disappear from view.

Starting the car, Stern made his way to the Cryptonomica. A thought kept bothering him but he brushed it away as the lingering unease from the faces in Peapod’s books, just his imagination getting away from him: _shadows don’t have eyes_.

* * *

The Cryptonomica was once more a dead end. It was half museum and half tourist shop, but as Peapod had mentioned he could see why the artist might find inspiration there. In those dark corners, the stuffed displays must seem like all sorts of fearsome creatures.

Kirby, Ned’s assistant, was friendly enough and talked excitedly, just as he had done during Stern’s initial visit. He dropped the useful tip that Peapod’s name was actually Tamo though he couldn’t remember their last name, and that they were called Peapod because of their affinity for Polynesian tattoos. Stern hadn’t understood the reference until Kirby explained that the traditional Samoan tattoos were called _pe’a_ , and someone had misread it as “pea”.

An innocuous and rather unhelpful anecdote, but interesting; he would have to look into that, and ask how Peapod—or Tamo, whatever they prefer to be called—had shifted gears from tribal tattoos to realistic cryptids.

And Kirby explained excitedly that they were Tamo’s specialty, what they were known for—unsurprising, since that was initially what Stern had been drawn to. They had been out of town the week before as they traveled for a convention in Pennsylvania. Kirby didn’t remember the name of it but suggested that Stern look up the artist’s Instagram page and to approach them that way if he was still interested in speaking to them.

Stern didn’t have the heart to tell him that he had little interest in speaking with Peapod again.

Thanking Kirby, Stern made the drive back to Amnesty Lodge—encountering a few Hornets on the way, who didn’t seem to notice him—to do more thinking. The chill in the air was receding, so some of the hiking trails should be opening up soon. Perhaps there was a tour service in town that could indulge his curiosity, or perhaps he could just do a hike on his own.

Something in him shuddered at the thought of being alone in those thick trees. There was no cell service out here, and if he got lost or hurt…well, he remembered his survival training before he was assigned to the unexplained phenomena taskforce and it wasn’t something he had any desire to repeat.

 _In space, no one can hear you scream_ , his mind supplied rather unhelpfully. _That was from_ Alien.

Groaning to himself, Stern made the turn toward Amnesty Lodge.

* * *

Stern was roused from his writing by a firm knock on his door.

Straightening himself—noting with disgust that his pants needed to be pressed again, or perhaps he should just change into something less formal for the evening—he looked through the peephole, just barely catching himself from yelling in surprise at the enormous eye staring back.

Then there was nothing but red and Aubrey Little came into view. She was laughing—and Stern could hear it through the door—as she spoke to Dani about something.

Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart he opened the door.

“So,” Aubrey blurted before he could so much as greet them. “I figured we could all use a morale boost, yeah? So I booked a Paint and Sip for everyone but we’re running a little short on participants.”

“We need one more,” Dani explained. “Aubrey didn’t look at the minimum number of people when she booked it.”

Aubrey made a face. “Everyone chipped in already so you don’t have to pay much—just like a buck or two. Oh, and if you have a particular wine you want to drink, you should bring it. Ned and Duck are in town getting the wine so it’s a little late to make requests and they have questionable taste in most things so I’m not sure we should expect anything _great_ from them, you know?”

Stern blinked at the two of them. “Paint and Sip?” he echoed.

* * *

After changing into something more comfortable—a pair of jeans that was probably too tight for someone his age, a faded tee—he made his way downstairs to the kitchen area of the Lodge. Barclay had already begun moving tables around, moving them into two neat columns and setting out two chairs per table.

“Need some help?” Stern asked, his smile wavering when Barclay jumped. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

Barclay laughed nervously, pressing a hand to his chest. “Whew,” he said and gave another nervous laugh. “I’m just moving chairs around for the Paint and Sip.” Barclay peered at him. “Did Aubrey get you, too?” he asked wryly.

“Something like that,” Stern replied and moved to help him carry a table. “Why are there only two chairs per table? Wouldn’t it be better to have more seats?”

He laughed at the face that Barclay made. “Date night,” he said with all the bile it deserved.

“I thought it was a morale boost?”

An odd look cross Barclay’s face. “Morale boost, date night,” he laughed nervously. “Potayto, potahto, I guess. I think she’s been telling something different to everyone.”

“I’m surprised that she invited me,” Stern admitted as they reached for the last table. “I had the feeling that not a lot of people like to be around me. Perhaps it’s my sunny disposition.”

Barclay gave another nervous laugh. “Nobody feels innocent when the police—or a suit—are around,” he said gently. “Perhaps you just put everyone on edge. I’m glad that you changed out of your suit. You look better like this.”

Startled, Stern nearly tripped. He kept his head down as he lifted his end of the table again, following Barclay’s quiet instructions. When he got the courage to look up, he found that Barclay wasn’t looking at him; he had the distinct feeling that he had missed something and his stomach twisted in knots.

They continued their setup quietly, unfolding chairs and setting out items. Barclay said little and Stern was distinctly aware of the silence between them. He and Barclay had never been one for long conversations—Barclay had always seemed to be incredibly uncomfortable around him—but now it was worse.

Keeping his head down, he set out plastic wine glasses—he made private note of the brand because until he had lifted them, they had looked like glass—and plastic bowls and pitchers of water. They were just setting out assorted pots and buckets of ice lined with plastic bags to keep from melting all over the table when the door was kicked open.

Barclay dropped his bucket with a crash, sending ice cubes spraying everywhere. Duck Newton looked as startled as newborn deer, nearly dropping the box in his hand.

“Wine’s here!” Aubrey cried, oblivious to Stern’s racing heart and Duck and Barclay’s open terror. She caught sight of Stern. “Agent Agent! You made it! Question, do you have a first name? Or is it just Agent?”

Stern opened his mouth to answer, but Aubrey continued anyway, seemingly oblivious. He wondered how oblivious she really was.

“Well, I’m glad that you could join us,” she told him, sounding honestly sincere. “I was joking about the $5, by the way. Everything’s already been handled. Did you have any bottles you wanted to bring down?”

“Nothing that would be appropriate for a Paint and Sip,” Stern said mildly. “I suspect that the alcohol levels for these types of thing should be lower. Barclay, why don’t you tell me where the broom is and I’ll sweep up this ice before someone slips?”

Aubrey seemed to notice the ice on the ground for the first time as Duck edged away, lips pressed tightly shut. The door opened again and Ned waddled in, two boxes stacked in front of him; one of them was sliding as he caught sight of Stern.

“Well don’t just stand there!” Ned cried. “Help me! Or do you want to be the reason that nobody gets their alcohol?”

At the same time, Aubrey said, “No, the more the merrier, Agent Agent! Go and get your alcohol! What is it, bourbon? I can see you as a bourbon kind of man. Or tequila? Moonshine? Ooh, go get it!”

“I got it,” Dani said quietly, taking the top box from Ned who scowled. “If you don’t like wine, Agent Stern, we have soda as well. I’ve been told that the most fun to be had out of these kinds of events is when you’re really drunk.”

“I’m not driving!” Duck yelled from the table where he had set down his burden. He hung his head and Stern turned away to give him his privacy. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to say that, I’m sorry.”

Aubrey seemed to catch on. “Oh,” she said. “If you don’t want to drink, that’s fine. I’m sure Barclay can—oh, Barclay! Barclay, do you still have some of that cider?” Not even waiting for the cook to respond, Aubrey turned back to Stern. “If he still has some of that cider, it’s _amazing!_ And if you like to drink, it goes really well with spiced cider. Or bourbon—whatever you drink. And we can get you some soda or juice or water…”

“Breathe,” Dani advised, patting her back. “She’s really excited about this,” she told Stern.

“Well this is the first time I’ve done this with people,” Aubrey said. “Of _course_ I’m excited! This is exciting!” she bounced away.

Stern cleared his throat and Dani looked at him. “I’ll…I have some tequila upstairs. And…other assorted jars of alcohol.”

“Bring them if you’re willing to share,” Dani suggested. “Or even if you’re not. It’s halfway to a BYO kind of party.”

He cleared his throat again, feeling very distinctly like an outsider. “I’ll…be back.”

“Dinner before the event will start in half an hour,” Dani assured him. “No need to rush.”

There was no need to rush, Stern thought a little sourly to himself. But he shouldn’t anyway. Clearly Barclay was uncomfortable around him now. Perhaps he should take the long way around to give him some time to recover.

From what, Stern couldn’t imagine. But whatever had happened, clearly he was distressed.

 _Nobody feels innocent when the police—or a suit—are around_ , Barclay had said. Is that why?

After checking around to make sure there was nobody nearby to see, he let his shoulders slump tiredly. He had a job to do, but…well, that didn’t mean that he wanted to be a bully and cause such distress. Especially if he was to be here indefinitely…well, he couldn’t exactly make enemies of the staff at the Lodge. He’d have to make it up to Barclay somehow.

He did take the long way, passing the area near the back awning that led to the hot springs, climbed the back stairs toward the second-floor rooms, wandered down that hall, and returned to his room. There he double-checked the folds on his slacks and inspected his jacket for imaginary dust or dirt.

All told he took nearly ten minutes to return and found that there were already more people in the kitchen area. He recognized Kirby from the Cryptonomica who waved at him, a kid from the Lodge that Stern thought was named Jake, and the woman that everyone called Mama. There was another woman that was speaking animatedly with Duck—clearly they were familiar with each other. From the jacket that was draped over the back of a chair, she was probably also a forest ranger.

Dani and Aubrey were setting out metal stands and opening jars of Sterno; Ned and Barclay were carrying out large hotel pans of food for a buffet-style dinner. “Hey watch this!” Aubrey exclaimed and snapped; there was a _pop_ and the flash of flash paper that sparkled as it fell over one of the Sterno lighters.

It didn’t light and Aubrey pouted.

Laughing, Dani leaned over and used a long-reach lighter to light the cloth wick. Aubrey shook her hands around. “The Lady Flame, everyone!” Dani bowed to an imagined audience and the two of them giggled.

“Hurry up!” Ned complained. “This is hot! And heavy!” the two women skittered out of the way and Ned huffed as he nearly dropped the tray. “Whew! This is hard work.” Catching sight of Stern, his face lit up. “Hey, buddy…”

Turning, the women waved. “You’re back!” Aubrey exclaimed. “I thought that you would have run away! You were gone for so long.”

Barclay ducked out of the kitchen, neatly dropping his tray into the rack. “Oh,” he said. “You’re back.” He sounded much less excited to see him.

“Stern’s gonna join us!” Aubrey told him. “For dinner _and_ for Paint and Sip.”

The look on Barclay’s face showed clearly how _excited_ he was for that. “So he mentioned.”

Ned shoved the pot holders in his hands into Stern’s chest. Instinctively, Stern reached up with the back of his hand to catch them. “ _You_ take this, and _I’ll_ take that,” he said, reaching for the neck of the bottles in Stern’s hands.

“ _I_ will take those,” Dani said firmly, taking the bottles from Stern.

“Ned would drink them and hide the rest,” Aubrey explained. “We’ll keep it safe for you. Dr. Harris Bonkers, Ph.D will guard them, right?”

The enormous white rabbit on the table—probably not very sanitary, for all his white fur was clean and glowed white as newly-fallen snow—twitched his nose. Seeing them all looking he lifted his ears attentively.

“ _I_ will guard them,” Dani repeated. “Go help get the food out.”

Shaking his head, Stern obeyed.

“Have I made you uncomfortable, Barclay?” Stern asked in the kitchen as he adjusted the oven mitts on his hand.

Barclay jumped and nearly dropped his tray. “No,” he said quickly—too quickly. Even Barclay knew and he made a face. “Just…I’m just being silly. I’m sorry about earlier.”

“What happened earlier?” Stern thought hard. “In town you mean?”

Immediately Barclay looked alarmed. “What happened in town?”

Stern shook his head. “Nothing major, but I wouldn’t say I made any friends today,” he admitted. “I’ll tell you over dinner?”

For a moment Barclay regarded him oddly before nodding in agreement. “We have a few more trays to set out,” he said.

Smiling for a reason he couldn’t name, Stern lifted the next tray and got to work. Dani had indeed saved not only his alcohol but also a seat next to Barclay near the end of the table.

“Close quarters,” Aubrey said apologetically. “We don’t have a lot of tables left since most of them went to the Paint and Sip.”

“Is Tamo joining us?” Mama asked as she sat down across from Stern and Barclay.

Stern flinched. “Tamo?” he echoed faintly.

“Are they bringing…anyone else?” the kid—Jake? Jack?—asked quietly. He sounded just as excited as Stern himself ways.

“Is there something wrong?” Aubrey asked as she shoved an entire slice of meat into her mouth without cutting it. “I’m missing something, right?”

“I met Tamo today,” Stern said quietly, looking down at his plate. He was less hungry now.

The kid Jake cleared his throat. “They’re pretty close with the Hornets,” he explained carefully. “They and Hollis are pretty close—that’s the leader of the—”

“We’ve met,” Aubrey said a little sourly, mouth full. She chewed and swallowed. “Sorry, Jake, I didn’t…”

“Not an issue,” Jake assured her. “Just…it’s weird, you know?”

Dinner was more subdued after that. “What happened with you and Tamo?” Aubrey asked after a long and awkward pause. “They seemed really nice when I went in to make the appointment.”

Stern made a face before he could stop himself. “I may have…asked a few questions that my have made them uncomfortable. As I was told, sometimes suits make people uncomfortable.”

Duck laughed a little too-loudly before swearing under his breath and shoving something in his mouth to shut himself up.

“Ah,” Ned said in that way he had that made Stern want to grit his teeth. “Searching for the ever-elusive Bigfoot, huh? Still looking for that guy?”

The other forest ranger looked at Duck with concern as he stuffed another roll in his mouth. Stern figured that it would be best if the Heimlich maneuver was performed by a professional.

“It _is_ why I’m here,” Stern reminded him as neutrally as he could. “I found their art online—there was an article about up-and-coming artists and they were one of them. They’re most famous for their cryptid series, I think.”

Mama cleared her throat. “Actually,” she corrected. “They’re known for their blacklight tattoos, first. It’s hard work to use it, apparently—the ink gets everywhere and it becomes harder to see. We’ve talked about it before, actually. Not many artists are willing to use it, and fewer shops will allow it.”

“And their design work,” Jake piped up. “They’re not _only_ a tattoo artist. They helped to design some of the logos and stuff for the Hornets.”

Aubrey choked. “Really?” she demanded. “Do you think I could...I don’t know…”

“Commission them?” Jake asked. “I’m sure. They do signs here, too.”

Ned made a face. “Yeah, they were sniffing around The Cryptonomica after the incident with the Pizza Hut sign. Asking if we needed a new sign.”

“They’re usually around The Cryptonomica,” Kirby pointed out. “You gave them a pass and they bring you business from the people that want to get cryptid tattoos.”

It sounded like an old argument so Stern let it be. He carefully cut his meat and ate. Kirby and Ned continued to bicker while the ranger slapped Duck on his back as he coughed up chunks of bread.

“Honestly,” Mama said, sounding a peculiar brand of frustrated and amused that only parents seemed capable of. “I don’t know what I’m to do with y’all.”

* * *

Tamo and Hollis arrived as they were finishing up dinner, carrying in enormous tote bins of supplies. Stern told himself that he wasn’t hiding from Tamo’s unnaturally green eyes when he hurriedly asked Barclay if he needed help in the kitchen.

“They really have you rattled, huh?” Barclay asked sympathetically.

“It’s not _them_ ,” Stern explained as he loaded the commercial sinks with dishes before he realized that he didn’t know what he was doing. “They go here, right?”

Barclay’s smile was a little shaky. “We have a dishwasher. And a sterilizer.” he waited for a moment before adding, “but the dishes need to be rinsed first, so yes.”

Before he could stop himself, he made a face; Barclay barked a rough laugh of surprise. They were just loading the dishwasher, arms wet up to their elbows (and in Stern’s case, all down his front since he wasn’t expecting the spray from the industrial nozzle) when Mama poked her head in through the door.

“Come on,” she told them. “We’re about to start.”

Both men made faces at her and she cackled as she left. “I guess we better go,” Barclay said reluctantly. “Come on, the rest can wait until later. We’re nearly done anyway.” Drying their hands, they both wandered out and found that the dining room had transformed while they were cleaning.

The tables were now covered in thin plastic tablecloths, and the pots and buckets of ice had been filled with bottles of wine and beer. There was also a large punch bowl full of a questionable liquid.

“Don’t drink it,” Barclay whispered to Stern who nodded wordlessly. “Oh look, I see your bottles over there.”

It was hard to miss. Aubrey was waving excitedly to them and gesturing to the table in question. Which was right at the front.

Right by Tamo.

Their friendly smile turned a little frigid upon seeing Stern. Hollis, sitting at the table behind them, snorted and took a long swig of their beer.

“Is everyone here?” Tamo asked Aubrey who looked around, counting to herself, before nodding at Tamo. “Alright, everyone to their stations.”

“Do you mind if I sit with you? It looks like everyone else is taken,” Barclay whispered.

Looking around, Stern found that the only open spot was next to him. “Of course,” he assured the cook.

“Tonight we’re doing a forest landscape,” Tamo told the group. “Hollis?”

Grunting, the Hornet sat up and reaching under the table nearby, pulled out a small painting, perhaps one foot wide and two feet tall, of a dark sky, an enormous orange-red moon, and spires of pine trees reaching toward the stars like gnashing teeth.

Stern sucked in a breath. It was pretty, the colors wonderful but it seemed far out of the realm of possibility for him. Barclay seemed to be of the same mind; he swore under his breath and poured himself a healthy glass of wine which he drank quickly. Reminded of the point of this whole exercise, Stern poured himself a glass of liquor.

While he didn’t drink quite as fast as Barclay, he did sip very quickly.

Glancing at Stern and Barclay, Tamo turned around and looked at the painting that Hollis held up. “Wrong one,” they said dryly.

“Why not?” Hollis asked, turning the painting to look at it. “I think it’s quite nice.” Nonetheless they put that painting down and lifted another.

It was simpler: trees losing their leaves in the early autumn and a person sitting on the edge of a cliff cast as silhouettes against a night sky filled with swirling colors and a full moon.

“Oh thank fuck,” someone said; Stern thought it might be Duck.

“I’m not drunk enough for this,” Ned announced. Stern silently agreed.

Tamo’s smile was razor-thin when it rested on Stern.

By the time that Stern stumbled up to his room, he wasn’t sure if he was red in the face from embarrassment or if he was simply just that drunk. He and Barclay had drank wine and liquor like it was water.

On the plus side, Stern thought that they had bonded quite a bit in their shared mortification.

On the down side, Tamo spent nearly the entire Paint and Sip period referencing Bigfoot.

_How about we add a person sitting and watching the stars? How about we make it Bigfoot?_

_Maybe we should keep the trees sparse—_ _we don't want to give Bigfoot a place to hide here, do we?_

Duck and Ned guffawed too-loudly at each joke while Barclay seemed to flinch. Worse, Tamo didn't seem to be doing it out of maliciousness or to mock everything about Stern—just to tease him. 

But bless his heart, Duck proved to be his saving grace when he drunkenly slurred that he wanted to draw Mothman in the picture. Soon, instead of having a quietly contemplative person sitting at the edge of the small cliff, everyone was making their own thing. 

The kid Jake turned the cliff into a ramp and painted a crude snowboarder, clearly himself, catching some air against the moon. Aubrey painted Dr. Harris Bonkers, Ph.D to nobody's surprise, and despite his giggles Ned drew an enormous cat standing beside the ledge, not on it, with luminous yellow eyes. 

Still, Tamo cast pointed looks over at Stern and Hollis snickered each time. 

Shaking his head to rid himself of the memories of those mocking stares, Stern tucked his finished painting against the wall near his bed and began undressing. His back to it, he didn't notice the Bigfoot in the painting turn its head ever so slightly.

* * *

Shadows moved outside where no human eye could see. It would have looked normal, perhaps just some of the reflected glare from the bright flood lights outside of the Lodge, if it wasn't for it moving contrary to the gentle evening breeze.

The shadows darted under one of the parked cars as gravel crunched and footsteps approached. “What's this?”  a voice asked. The figure reached into their satchel and pulled out an etch-a-sketch and placed it on the ground.

They stepped back as the shadows flowed over it.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” the figure continued. “Why _are_ you here? Normally you’re hiding.”

The shadows receded, revealing the surface of the etch-a-sketch. A single word had been drawn in the aluminum powder behind the plastic plate: _TROUBLE_.

“Hm,” the figure said thoughtfully. “Am I in trouble? Or is someone else.”

The word was erased; the shadows flowed over the board again. When they receded, there was a drawing instead: a circle with a pine tree at the center. Behind the tree were stripes that if the etch-a-sketch had such an option, would be filled with the colors of the setting sun.

“Ned?” the figure asked, clearly surprised. “Well, he’s always been trouble.” The shadows rattled the etch-a-sketch emphatically, causing some of the image to fade, and the figure snorted. “More than just him?”

_YES._

“Hm,” the figure said again. The board rattled as the word was erased. When the shadows receded once more, there was a picture in its place of a tall ape-like creature. “You’re talking about Agent Stern.”

The shadows erased the etch-a-sketch and wrote, _ALL OF THEM_.

“Do you think that Agent Stern is here because of me?” the figure asked. “Or is he really looking for Bigfoot?”

 _BE CAREFUL_ , the shadows advised through the etch-a-sketch. _MORE TO BE DONE_.

“Hey!” a voice yelled and the figure turned back to the Lodge and squinted against the bright outdoor lights. Hollis was approaching, a tote bin in their arms. The etch-a-sketch scraped against the ground as the shadows shoved it under the car. “Come on, Pod, it’s dark and I hate being out here this late.”

Tamo looked down at the shadows beneath the car. “Load up, I’ll drive you back,” he told it. “Then I’d like to have a long talk. It’s time to be more cautious and you’re right—there _is_ more to be done.”

Looking up at the dark shape of the Lodge’s roofline against the brilliance of the stars, Tamo smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stern has an interesting morning and Aubrey learns more about Tamo.

Stern woke up with an arm around his waist and someone snoring, their face pressed between his shoulder blades.

The painting that he had done the night before (while steadily working through his stores of alcohol) was staring at him. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, smacking his lips. It felt like his mouth was coated in silt, his throat as dry as the Sahara.

He peeked his eyes open to look at the painting again. It wasn’t the best—not that he was particular good at that skill—but it wasn’t as terrible as he had feared. Stern remembered that Tamo had been a good teacher despite their mocking.

It didn’t look _too_ far off the example that Hollis had shown them. The colors of the night sky were a little muddled and the stars were made of splatters of paint too large to deny what they were—what he gets, Stern thinks to himself, for drinking so much before picking up a paintbrush—but he thought that the trees looked quite handsome, even if the leaves were a little strangely shaped.

The silhouette of Bigfoot, that Tamo had helped paint in place, had its arms thrown out, its hands and fingers frozen in open claws to the sky, as it roared at the moon. In the distance, Tamo had painted a secluded cabin that looked vaguely like Amnesty Lodge with a light on as if it had heard the screams of the Bigfoot.

Stern sighed. He had been ready for ridicule—had received it on a number of occasions—but somehow it felt worse from Tamo. Perhaps it was because he had honestly _liked_ their art. Even looking at the little pieces of paper strewn around their shop, quick examples of tattoos that could be created quickly rather than custom-drawn, their art was _beautiful_.

Behind him, someone continued to snore. Stern’s head pounded as his hangover seemed to wake up with him.

What had happened last night? Why was someone in his room?

He wished that he could remember, but he had the distinct memory of returning to his room _alone_.

Of getting ready for bed _alone_.

Of climbing in bed _alone_.

Maybe someone had come by after? Had woken him in the middle of the night?

Stern knew that he should be more alarmed by this. There was sensitive information in this room and this was a very serious breach of security, not to mention _there was someone in bed with him and he didn’t know why_.

Or who it was, for that matter.

It was too early to think about this so for a moment longer he lay there in quiet misery.

Which was, of course, exactly when the person behind him decided to wake up. “Hey,” they said, revealing themselves at least to be masculine, their voice thick with sleep and the accent that pervaded this small town. They nuzzled their face into Stern’s back sleepily. “You smell different.”

“I _should_ be concerned that you know how I might smell normally, but I think in this case it’s because you think I’m someone else,” Stern said dryly. Despite his hangover—his stomach churning, and his head pounding like someone was tap dancing on his skull and walking with track spikes all over his brain, and his mouth feeling like it was full of cotton balls—Stern found himself amused with the comical way that the stranger froze.

“Fuck,” Duck Newton said very quietly. “Why are you in my room?”

Stern huffed a laugh as Duck Newton shuffled backwards and allowed Stern to sit up without the dead weight of his arm around his waist. “Why are you in _my_ room?” Stern retorted after a quick check to make sure that they were indeed in his room.

From the look on Duck’s face, he came to the same realization. “I went to sleep in my own room,” he said quickly. “I swear.”

Despite the evidence in front of him, Stern believed him; Duck was a terrible liar.

“Shit,” Duck continued, dragging a hand down his face. “I went back to my room and just passed out.” He peeked under the covers and muttered to himself, “ _oh thank God I’m still wearing clothes_.”

Stern chose to ignore that and got to his feet. He shuffled to the mini-fridge where he pulled out a Nalgene bottle of water and drank as much of it as he could stand. It would do until he could get something greasy in his stomach and a bottle of Gatorade or something.

“I’ll, uh…” Duck fiddled with the thick comforter. “I’ll go on and get outta your hair, huh? Um…we didn’t do nothing, did we?”

“No.”

He ignored how Duck breathed, “ _oh thank God_ ” again. “’Cause I got a wife. Shit. No, fiancée. Fuck.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” Stern told him tiredly.

Duck continued to swear under his breath. “I got a boyfriend. _Shit!_ ” from the different tone of that particular expletive, Duck wasn’t lying—just had not meant to say that.

A part of Stern was curious; the rest of him was hungover. “I don’t believe we did anything,” Stern told him tiredly. “I have no idea how you ended up here.” He turned and found that Duck had his bright red face held in his hands. “With respect, I don’t care what you do behind closed doors. I _do_ care that you’re in my room right now and neither of us know why.”

“Shit,” Duck said weakly, muffled by the heels of his palms. “At least I’m still dressed I guess, huh?”

Stern eyed him. He needed a shower but he also needed to sweep the room again. Both things crawled beneath his skin like a hive of ants.

“Fuck,” Duck groaned. “I didn’t mean to say that. Just means that it’s like they say: tequila makes my clothes fall off. _Fuck_ , I didn’t mean to say that either.”

“You _are_ dressed, right?” Stern asked a little too sharply; his skull throbbed.

“Yes!” Duck’s face screwed into a confused look and he peeked beneath the comforter which he had lifted to cover his entire torso like a scandalized woman in an old-style sitcom. “ _Yes! Oh thank God, yes I am._ ”

Stern rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I need a shower,” he grumbled.

“Oh,” Duck blinked. “Right. I’ll…I’ll just…” he got gingerly to his feet and stretched with a groan. Almost immediately his hands shot to his mouth and he looked guiltily at Stern.

Wordlessly Stern pointed to the bathroom door and Duck charged at it, torso nearly horizontal as he struggled not to puke. A moment later he could hear the sound of Duck retching, hopefully over the toilet, and Stern sat down on the bed again.

After fifteen minutes of retching and swearing, Duck finally cleaned up his mess—it was a miracle that he had made it to the toilet, but everything had...well, Stern didn’t want to think about why Duck needed to wipe down the toilet—and Stern saw him out. Fortunately nobody was in the hall when Duck left, swearing under his breath as he shaded his eyes from the bright hallway lights and the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Only then was Stern able to shower and sweep his room to make sure that his security hadn’t been _too_ compromised.

Not that he had much to compromise, but still.

He had been reassured to see when he let Duck out that the deadbolt had been locked, at least; so whatever had happened, he had to have been a participant. The windows had been closed and locked as well, and the shades drawn just as he did every night at sunset.

That’s what he told himself, at least. It was that or a ghost, which was laughable.

After a cold shower he felt more alive and after getting dressed he wandered downstairs with the hope that he was early enough to catch a greasy breakfast.

It seemed that Barclay was in much better shape than he was. Seeing Stern shuffling over he set out food on a tray for him: a large mug of coffee, a plate with strips of bacon and breakfast sausage, biscuits with small bowls of butter and jam, greasy potatoes, a bottle of blue Gatorade.

“I have some kind of strawberry flavor if you prefer,” Barclay offered, tapping the bottle. “Here, let me help you before you drop it.”

“It’s fine,” Stern told him tiredly. “I’ll manage.” He reached for the tray at the same time that Barclay did; their fingers brushed. “I think.”

Barclay’s smile was shaky as he took the tray back from Stern. Their fingers brushed again and Barclay seemed to find the tray very interesting all of a sudden.

Perhaps he was just trying to make sure that the coffee didn’t spill.

“Did you hear?” Kirby asked the room in general, laughing as he walked into the eating area. He was laughing and looked annoyingly put together. “Duck locked himself out of his room this morning.”

“What?”

“ _What?_ ” Barclay asked, sounding strangely alarmed.

Kirby laughed again. Her face against the table, Aubrey groaned. “Too loud.”

“Well, I’m sure Barclay or Mama have an extra key,” Jake pointed out. “Locking yourself out of your room is hardly a new thing.”

“I know,” Kirby told them, leaning against the table. Barclay set Stern’s tray down in his usual spot near the window. “But this was weird! The deadbolt was locked, not just the knob. _Fortunately_ , it looks like Duck had left his window open so Mama’s looking to get a ladder up there. Or…well, that’s what it sounded like when I left them to it.”

Jake made a face and shoved the rest of his eggs and breakfast sausage in his mouth. “I guess that means that I’ll be called up.”

“No,” Barclay insisted. “She’ll probably be calling for me soon. You all relax, I’ll deal with it.”

He left quickly, looking almost like he was running _away_ from, instead of _to_ , something.

Stern tucked in to his food, pacing himself with little bites in between sips of coffee and Gatorade. How strange. The door locked, the chain or deadbolt in place, and the window open.

So how did Duck end up in his room?

He knew better than to say this out loud. Kirby got some food and sat down with Ned, Aubrey, and Dani; Jake dropped his plates off in the bins next to the kitchen and followed after Barclay.

Though he was intrigued he knew better than to tell anyone so for the moment he focused on eating and listening to the furtive whispers coming from the table next to him.

* * *

The Hornet apparently named Novoa and his friend Junk Rat were in Coyote Tattoos when Stern managed to scrape himself together enough to make the trip into town.

This time, Tamo was sitting at the front desk, their head down as they drew. They looked up when the bell rang and raised their brows.

Stern paused, surprised. Tamo was wearing makeup: dark purple eyeshadow and violet lipstick. Today their eyes were a much more normal shade of green, closer to hazel than antifreeze.

“Can I help you?” Tamo asked. “Do you have more questions about your investigation?”

The big Hornet Novoa turned to scowl at him. “Not about that,” Stern told them. “Just…general questions. If you have a moment.”

“You got a warrant?” Junk Rat asked, crossing his arms across his bony chest.

“Get your head out of your ass,” Tamo advised Junk Rat. “He’s here as a guest this time.”

Junk Rat flinched. “Sorry,” he told Tamo. “Just…”

Tamo’s intense expression softened. “I can take care of myself,” they said a little more gently and Stern watched their interactions with interest. “Novoa—”

“Got it,” the big Hornet said. “We’ll watch the front for you.”

Standing, Tamo stretched and jerked their head to a doorway that Stern hadn’t noticed before, on the opposite side of the working area. It had been hidden by a hanging black curtain and when Tamo pulled it back, it revealed a short hallway with private rooms.

Stern followed obediently and watched as Tamo gestured to the one on his right and closed the door behind them. At the center of the room, illuminated by a bright fluorescent light, was a padded massage table. Folded against the walls were more tables, cushions, and blankets. Stacked in a metal cabinet nearby were little vials of color, neat boxes of equipment and other supplies. He was intrigued to find wipes, sterile latex gloves, saran wrap, and rolls of off-white tape.

“I use these areas for consultations or when customers desire privacy,” Tamo explained, pulling up a rolling chair. They gestured to the seats tucked in a corner. “Sit there or on the bench, it doesn’t matter.” Their lips twitched. “I figured that you were also a little curious about the back rooms here.”

“A little,” Stern admitted. “I don’t have tattoos.”

Tamo’s expression softened just a little. “How can I help you today, Agent Stern?”

“Just Stern today, is fine,” he assured them. “I’m not here as an agent of the FBI.” Tamo didn’t necessarily look reassured, but they seemed to relax just a little. He realized that Barclay had been right—they were uncomfortable around a suit.

“Then how may I help you, Mr. Stern?” Tamo asked, lifting one ankle over the opposite knee. They tugged a sketchbook off of a nearby table and placed it in the flat surface made by their legs.

“I’m not interested in a tattoo,” Stern told them quickly. “But I’m interested…in the process I suppose. And…well, I know I approached you wrong the other day.”

Tamo’s brows rose. “Far be it from me to judge what you look like, but I doubted that you were here for a tattoo,” they said gently. “But I thought that you might be curious about other things—since you are not here on official capacity, then I wonder what kind of art you are curious about?”

“I _am_ curious about your cryptid series,” Stern admitted. “All of them, not just Bigfoot. They were saying last night that your original specialty was blacklight tattoos?”

“They are,” Tamo agreed. “But with all of the forest here in the Appalachians…you can see how I might have to make adjustments, right? Hikers claim that they see things all the time and more claim that they are inspired by the trees and snow and mountains and the animals. They found their soul or their heart or some other organ out there; or they claim that they spoke to Mother Earth and chose to change the course of their life.”

Stern’s brows rose. “You sound like you don’t believe that people can change.”

A strange expression crossed Tamo’s face. “Oh, people can _change_ ,” they said quietly. “But is a permanent change? People don’t have a sense of permanence, anymore; no respect whatsoever for the consequences of their actions. A werewolf can always change back during the day; even a tattoo, ink forcibly pushed beneath the skin, can be removed.”

“You don’t think it’s for true,” Stern realized.

Tamo nodded. “People will find themselves in the trees and as soon as the going gets tough, they lose ‘themselves’ again. Did they ever really find anything in the trees but the lies they wanted to tell? Or perhaps a cool fad?” they gestured to the sketchbook in their lap. “I sometimes wonder if anyone would notice the mark I leave behind. As I said, tattoos can be removed—I’m sure you’ve heard the commercials.”

“Laser tattoo removal.”

“Laser tattoo removal,” Tamo agreed. “Or they go to get it covered up—that’s also a very popular show these days, tattoo coverups. No, assuming someone comes in to my shop and asks for a tattoo. We discuss the piece of art, the colors, the style; we agree on a price and a location and they give me the go-ahead after I put the stencil down.

“What if I were to do something terrible? Instead of a mushroom flash I do a dick? Would they come back to ask me to fix it? Would they visit _anyone_ to get it fixed? Would they go to the laser removal shop and ask to have them get rid of it? Laugh it off as a silly thing they got in a backwater little town.” Tamo made a face. “Or perhaps just leave a poor review on Yelp.”

Their logic was flawed but Stern didn’t say anything, sensing that now was not a good time to bring it up. He cleared his throat. “Is that how you got to the cryptid series?”

Tamo had the grace to look embarrassed. “I apologize for that rant,” they laughed and Stern wondered what had brought it on. “Yes. A hiker claimed to have seen something in the trees; he called it a spider made of fog that stared at him with a dozen eyes that glowed like fire. He told me all about it while I tattooed his _actual_ job. The next day I sketched it out and another customer saw it. You can imagine what happened.”

He could. Word had spread like wildfire. The customer that saw the sketch asked for something that Tamo wasn’t known for and when they rose to the occasion, word spread. The customer told their friends who visited or told _their_ friends who all began to visit the quiet little town of Kepler.

There was snow, there was hiking, and there was Coyote Tattoos.

“Kirby said that you were at a tattoo convention,” Stern said. “What’s that like?”

Tamo smiled. “Skindustries. It’s in Bethlehem—have you heard of it?” Stern shook his head. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Allentown? It’s also the title of a Billy Joel song—or perhaps you’ve heard of Bethlehem Steel? The Sands Casino?”

“None of those sound familiar,” Stern admitted.

“It’s fine,” Tamo assured him dryly. “That particular event is just what you expect it to be: a big convention floor with assigned stalls for those that apply for them. You bring your own equipment and they provide a few—shared scanners and printers—but for the most part you bring your own flash to work on.”

Stern nodded even though he wasn’t sure that he understood. “Networking?”

“And new clients,” Tamo agreed. “Some of them learned that I’m in West Virginia and they’re close enough to drive.”

They fell into silence. “Your art is so detailed,” Stern said slowly. “I’m curious where you draw your inspiration.”

“Sometimes it seems to draw itself,” Tamo replied. “As if by magic. Usually I do a lot of research—for a lot of entries in the cryptid series, I have at least a month’s wait before we can schedule the work.”

“Is that…a long time?”

Tamo shrugged. “Whether they think it’s too long or not is not my problem,” they told him. “If they want a cryptid series tattoo, they will wait; if not, they can go elsewhere. This is what they want and this is what they pay for: quality. Not to mention I, personally, do not want to put something out that is…misleading. Cryptids can sometimes have very large cultural implications—I want to be sure that whatever I do, I do them justice.”

“It must be an interesting job,” Stern murmured. “Balancing your art versus what the customer wants.”

He received a wry smirk in response. “I get my way or they don’t get a tattoo. There are hard lines that I do not cross and they may complain all I want, but I am very up front with them during my consultation.”

Stern nodded toward the front. “Do people hang out here often?”

“Not many. The Hornets like to, though. There are a few food places in this plaza and if they’re not messy I let them eat in the lobby. I have a game console in the back and between clients or during a slow period when I don’t have commissions, we sometimes have tournaments.”

“You do Paint and Sips often?”

Tamo shrugged. “Whenever people want. I have it somewhat regularly if I’m not too busy but occasionally I get a private party request. Such as the one last night.”

“I hadn’t expected it,” Stern admitted. “Aubrey asked me at the last minute.”

This time Tamo looked amused. “So I heard. She hadn’t looked at the minimum number of people for the event. Originally she had wanted to do a date night then turned it into a group event.”

Barclay had been right.

Stern nodded. “I think I’ve taken up enough of your time,” he said regretfully. “I do appreciate you meeting with me like this—and I am sorry for…yesterday.”

For a long moment Tamo regarded him thoughtfully. “Yes,” they said at last, a little distracted. Stern wondered if it was even directed at him. “We could have handled it better, but it is quite alarming to have someone identify themselves as the FBI ask to speak with you, whether alone or not.”

“I need to work on that,” Stern agreed. “It hasn’t worked well for me thus far.”

Tamo closed their sketchbook and got to their feet. “Start with your name, not your job,” they advised and led them back to the front. “People want to talk to a person, not a task.” Their lips turned downward as they pulled back the curtain between the private rooms and the front lobby. “Novoa!”

The big Hornet flinched in surprise, backing away guiltily. Aubrey Little stood still, having not moved away as Novoa had. “Agent Agent,” she said excitedly. “What are you doing here?”

“I had some unfinished business with Tamo,” Stern told her. “And now I will take my leave—I have a few other errands that I need to run. Thank you for your time.”

Tamo nodded and the Hornets moved out of the way as Stern left. “Gah,” Junk Rat muttered. “Suits.”

“Mind your manners,” Tamo told them sternly and turned to smile at Aubrey. “How can I help you Miss Little?”

Aubrey made a face. She hadn’t known quite what to make of Agent Agent being there, much less in an area sectioned off from the public. Despite her curiosity she said nothing, focusing instead on what she _did_ come to speak to Tamo about.

“I was wondering if you would maybe do a tattoo for me?” Aubrey blurted. “I’ve never had a tattoo before but all of your art is so nice, Dani and Kirby showed me online.”

Tamo smiled. “I take consultations in the back room.” They turned to peer at the two Hornets.

“We’ll be here,” Novoa said and sat down with a thunderous groan that was echoed by the seat.

Nodding, Tamo gestured to the curtain and held it back for Aubrey. “This way. Especially for new customers, I like to have a much more personal approach.”

Aubrey looked around as she followed Tamo. The short hallway was painted a plain black but the walls were covered in Polaroids of tattoos. She lingered behind to look at some of them while Tamo continued forward.

“I have a photo studio in the back here,” Tamo explained and Aubrey followed to see where they were pointing. Flash stands were piled in a corner next to a plain white backdrop. “The finished tattoos—after I finish the session and after it’s had a chance to heal—are photographed here. My favorites get the Polaroids.”

Looking back, Aubrey found that there were _a lot_ of them lining the walls. “Do you have a lot of favorites?”

“Something like that.” Tamo gestured to the small kitchenette in the back. “Can I get you some water? Tea?”

Aubrey watched them pour a glass of what she assumed was water from a pitcher in the refrigerator. The plastic was painted with a picture of a cucumber. “No, thank you.”

Nodding, Tamo ushered her into one of the quiet rooms to the side and gestured for her to take a seat. She did so awkwardly, looking around at the rows of instruments, the ominous silver cabinets—all closed—and the pictures lining the walls. Here was a picture of a bat, sketched to look like a recreation of a classroom dissection; there was a terrifying creature that combined a hyena’s sloped shoulders, a deer’s brown fur, and the picked-clean skull of some kind of cervine creature. It had no eyes but seemed to stare at Aubrey nonetheless until she looked away.

Pulling one of the rolling chairs over, Tamo sat down across from her, crossed their right ankle over their left knee—stopping to adjust the sit of their long skirt—and pulled a nearby sketchbook into their lap.

“Okay,” Tamo said kindly. “You were looking at pictures online. What sort of art are you looking for?”

Aubrey eyed the deer-skull-monster and looked back at Tamo. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just like all of your art.”

The smile that Tamo gave her was kind. “I can hardly tattoo all of my art on you,” they told her gently. “Surely you must have some idea? How do you want it to look? Where do you want it? What do you want to feel when you see it? Let’s start with those questions.”

Surprised,  Aubrey tilted her head back, looking up at the pocked surface of the drop ceiling above her. Her leg jiggled but Tamo didn’t seem bothered that the clips and buckles on her boots rattled. “I haven’t considered that.”

“It’s not all about aesthetics,” Tamo told her. “But it _is_ a permanent part of your body. What meaning do you want it to have to you? What do you want it to say about you?”

Aubrey whistled. “That’s deep.” She scrunched up her face as she thought. “Well, my stage name is The Lady Flame so…”

For a long moment Tamo stared at her, unblinking. She began to fidget. “Tell me about your act,” they said at last. “Not the _how_ , I have no interest in that right now; tell me the _what_. What spectacle are you giving them?”

So Aubrey described it while Tamo watched, head cocked to the side as they concentrated, barely blinking.

When Aubrey trailed off, Tamo abruptly stood and walked to one of the cabinets, digging around for a notebook. “I have just the thing,” they said over their shoulder. “I must warn you that it doesn’t quite match your stage name, but I think it will match the personality you are showing.” They made a pleased sound and pulled out a large notebook. Carefully hiding it from view, they flipped through the pages before finding the one they wanted and turning it back to Aubrey to see.

It was…a jellyfish and for a moment, just a moment, Aubrey warred with disappointment.

Certainly it was a _beautiful_ jellyfish, its body flaring wide as it swam, its many fine tentacles fluttering around it as if caught in an invisible current. Perhaps it did look somewhat like a flame if a bit inverted: the top of its dome was a pale turquoise-green that shaded into blue and then bright orange within the translucent shapes of its body which had been lined with white. At its heart, the thick ruffles that dropped from beneath its body, it was vibrant red and orange and gold. Its long tendrils faded into brilliant swirls and streaks of yellow and aqua and green as it drifted in its black background, its entire being made brighter by the dark paper.

“Flame is usually opposed by water,” Tamo agreed as if sensing her thoughts. “And a jellyfish leaves much to be desired in terms of spirit animals, or so one might think. But consider: what are they but living flowers, and a kind of fire in the water?” They handed her the sketchbook. “Watch.”

With a flip of a switch, the light over Aubrey’s shoulder flicked on and hummed, casting an eerie blue glow. Then Tamo turned off the main light and Aubrey gasped. The night sky had opened up behind the jellyfish, its light reflected in its body and tentacles even as they themselves glowed in bright lines. Now it seemed as if moving through the stars.

“A bit of blacklight ink…” Tamo trailed off. “Yes, I think this would fit you. Now it’s only a matter of deciding if you _want_ it or something like it.”

“I almost want to say that I don’t want it,” Aubrey said shaily, staring at the picture. “The Lady Flame with a jellyfish but...Tamo, this is _beautiful_.”

She looked up to find Tamo smiling. “One of my better works. Somehow it’s easier to do watercolor with a tattoo gun than with actual paints.” They made a face. “There are other options we can explore. I have…”

“I’ll take it,” Aubrey interrupted.

Tamo blinked at her and then slowly smiled.

* * *

Aubrey walked along the sunny streets, her hands in her pockets as she thought.

Despite deciding on a design, the consultation had still drawn on. Tamo had pried her mind for the exact colors of the jellyfish, how she wanted the background, the kind of blacklight colors she wanted. They had shown her vials and vials of all kinds of colors, taking her around the shop to show her all of their stashes.

They also seemed incredibly tolerant of her questions, of her getting distracted. There was a fish tank in the main working area, where Tamo had the vast majority of their inks, and of course she had to go and take a look before remembering that she had been taking up someone’s time.

She had nearly begged Tamo for the vials of something called “Ghost Ink” when she thought to ask Tamo why they might use some brands but not others.

“Ghost Ink is only for those I really don’t like,” they had told her dryly. “It’s a thinner ink and more susceptible to running beneath the skin or being absorbed completely by the body. Being so thin, it takes multiple passes to get the color to stick and most of the time I would need to cut it with regular ink. At that point, why should I use a special ink?” Tamo had wrinkled their nose. “It started out as an experiment. I’m not sure I’ll ever have to buy Ghost Ink ever again.”

Aubrey had frowned. “Surely there’s a reason? Something that makes it better than the regular ink?”

Tamo had shrugged. “A few side effects are different. It heals differently. But in the end in terms of pain and ink use, I’m not sure it’s quite worth it for the suffering. Sometimes someone wants it because it sounds cool.” Then they had smiled wryly. “And, as I said, sometimes I use it on customers that I don’t like.”

“I can’t imagine,” Aubrey had said sympathetically.

“It’s not always so bad,” Tamo had murmured. “But when someone keeps trying to argue with you about pricing and coupons and special deals because they regret offering you coupons for The Cryptonomica, then it gets somewhat annoying.”

Aubrey had looked up from where she was inspecting one of the vials of Ghost Ink. “Ned? Or Kirby?”

“Ned. He wanted a tattoo on his arse. That is certainly a sight I can’t unsee.”

Startled, Aubrey had laughed but made a mental note not to press Tamo too closely—she should probably ask Ned himself. Instead she placed the Ghost Ink back in its line, a little reluctantly. “A part of me wants it because it sounds cool, but you know best. I guess.”

Tamo had smiled thinly. “I think you for that consideration.”

There had been something about the way that Tamo talked about the ink, about Ned, that made her wonder. Ned _could_ be annoying, but Aubrey wondered what might be the true cause of it.

But now that she thought about it, Tamo had clearly been in town for a while and Ned had been here for _years_ . They probably knew _of_ each other if they didn’t know each other personally. At the same time, hadn’t someone said the night before that Tamo worked on general design work? She was certain that Ned had to have spoken to Tamo while setting up The Cryptonomica.

She kicked the sidewalk. Despite admitting to a free schedule that day, Tamo had insisted that they wait another day.

“People do not always consider the consequences of their actions,” Tamo had told her gravely. “If you insist that we do this today, I can oblige you but it would be best for everyone if you thought it over and waited until tomorrow. Think about it tonight. Think about it tomorrow morning. Come ready.”

Aubrey swallowed. Even now the strange tone of their voice sent shivers down her spine. There was something...not wrong, but not quite right about the way that Tamo had said that.

Then Tamo had explained themselves and Aubrey had felt bad for her impatience. “Especially large pieces like this, that take me many hours to sketch out, to tattoo, to bring to life on the skin, make me nervous. Sometimes people forget that this will stay with them forever. Customers will tell me, ‘don’t worry, I’ll just get it covered up if I don’t like it’.” They had laughed a little bitterly. “People don’t always think of consequences, not anymore. They are not cognizant about the requests they make of others—be it tattoos on their bum, or the suggestion of a partnership deal where one party gets almost no benefit…”

Tamo had laughed again, their lips curling in a wry smile. “Sorry. You didn’t need to hear that. But I like to do things at least a day after the initial consultation; I’d hate it if we both wasted hours of our time for something one of us doesn’t like.”

A partnership. Aubrey wondered if Tamo had been talking about Ned again.

What had Ned done to annoy them so much? Despite Agent Agent clearly rubbing them the wrong way, they weren’t quite as...overt about their dislike or frustration.

Then Tamo had decided that they were done talking about such things and walked her through the process so she’d know what to expect. They had given her sheets of information, care instructions, of directions to the store to get special soap and lotion, and rolls of paper towels because she wouldn’t be able to use her normal towel while the tattoo was still healing.

Soon she had paid the deposit and had left, promising to return the next morning for her appointment.

The Cryptonomica was near the drug store so she ducked in there first, squinting in the dim light for Ned. Luck was with her and her teammate was behind the counter.

Kirby was nowhere to be seen.

When Ned opened his mouth to begin his spiel about wonders and mysteries, she interrupted and said, “Hi, Ned!”

He squinted at her as she let the door close behind her. “Ah! Aubrey! What can I do for you? Were you in need of anything?” he waggled his eyebrows and she ignored him.

“I was curious if you had any tattoos,” she told him.

Ned made a face. “I have quite a few,” he admitted. “My most recent one is of the patch for the Pine Guard. It doesn’t work to actually travel in and to Sylvain, but it’s the principle of it.” Ned shrugged.

“Did Tamo do it?” Aubrey wondered.

A shadow crossed Ned’s face. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Peapod did, and it hurt like a bitch, too. They were a pain about it, you know? And they didn’t want to give me any more tattoos.” He cleared his throat. “Shot me down for a few other tattoo ideas and let me tell you...I’ve had some pretty sensitive areas on my body tattooed and none hurt as much as the one that Peapod did.”

Aubrey wrinkled her nose. “Ignoring that you have your...I don’t know, armpit or something tattooed...well, you don’t seem to like them.”

For a long moment Ned didn’t answer. Then he said very quietly, “I don’t believe in them as an artist.” then he made a face. “That came out wrong. They have remarkable art—they designed some of the stuff in here too, and we work together often with customers. But...let me put it this way: they want too much.”

Surprised, Aubrey blinked. “What?”

“They’re like some of those...I don’t know, hipster artists. Everything needs to have a bigger, deeper meaning,” Ned explained. “They couldn’t see the humor in giving me a tattoo that said ‘she thinks my tractor's sexy’. ‘Tractor’ would have just been a picture of a tractor. _Then_ they didn’t want to tattoo a portrait of Kenny Chesney. Couldn’t see the point in doing either of them. Called it a waste of their time.”

Aubrey wondered if Ned knew that the at least one of the reasons that Tamo—or Peapod, whatever people called them—didn’t want to do those was because it was on his ass. This was none of her business to share so she didn’t.

“No, I’m afraid that they seem to think that everything must have some kind of deeper meaning and...Aubrey I’m a rather shallow kind of guy. I don’t do symbolism and metaphors like that.” Ned shook his head ruefully.

Thinking back to the way that Tamo had helped her choose her tattoo— _How do you want it to look? Where do you want it? What do you want to feel when you see it? What meaning do you want it to have to you? What do you want it to say about you?_ —and could see how Ned might think they were too overbearing.

With more food for thought, Aubrey thanked Ned and left, stopping by the store to pick up the supplies that Tamo had said she’d need. Near the check-out counter was a small display of local art. There was a necklace that on a whim she bought for Dani: it was scarlet and orange on a plain black chain a polished crystal that looked almost like flame.

“Oh,” the clerk sighed when she rang up Aubrey’s purchases. “I had wondered if anyone would take it. This was such a nice piece—I’m surprised it didn’t go sooner.” She swiped the lotion back and forth across the scanner, scowled down at it, and tried again; the computer obediently beeped. “Pod’s art usually flies fast.”

After paying, Aubrey looked at the pendant again, flipping the little piece of cardboard over. There was Tamo’s signature stamp: the silhouette of a dog (probably a coyote, given the name of their shop) in the pad of a paw print.

_Tattoos, signage, jewelry,_ Aubrey thought wryly to herself. _What_ don’t _they do?_

* * *

If Tamo was surprised to see her there an hour early for her appointment, they showed no sign of it. The Hornet sitting in one of the waiting room chairs scowled at her but didn’t move from her spot.

She was built like a truck, one of her biceps looking like it could crush Aubrey’s head if she got within five feet of the Hornet.

“I’m almost ready,” Tamo told her. “Why don’t you come on back?” They turned to the Hornet. “Callisto?”

The Hornet nodded once, getting to her feet. How someone could be that large without being part bear was beyond Aubrey. She sat down behind the desk and watched Aubrey before she hurried after Tamo to the back rooms.

“Are there _always_ Hornets here?” Aubrey asked.

“When I get here in the mornings until I leave,” Tamo confirmed. “There...was an incident a few years ago. Hollis is kind enough to have some of the Hornets always nearby just in case there was a repeat incident and to serve as muscle and witnesses—whichever may be needed.”

Aubrey frowned but didn’t press. “I’m excited,” she admitted. “And nervous.”

Graciously, Tamo allowed the change in subject and distracted Aubrey with Netflix and by describing each tool they laid out.

She nodded along with everything but internally her mind was racing. Perhaps Jake Coolice might know what had happened. Or maybe even Duck—maybe Mama, maybe anyone that’s lived in the town for so long.

Perhaps she was looking too far into it.

Perhaps it wasn’t any of her business.

In the end she decided that she’d ask. If it wasn’t meant to be spoken of, surely someone would tell her...right?

* * *

“Oh,” Jake said softly when she asked that night.

Her arm was still tingling and there was a very strange sensation that she couldn’t explain, where it felt like her skin was _oozing_ (technically it was) and sliding against the plastic wrap that Tamo had wrapped around her new tattoo.

She couldn’t wait to finish up the tattoo with the blacklight ink in two weeks, though she wasn’t looking forward to the first washing; Tamo had been very clear that one of the worst washes was the worst.

So was the peeling stage, where colored bits of skin sloughed off in the water. But that wasn’t something that she wanted to think about at the moment.

Jake’s smile faded slightly. “That. A few years ago there was...an incident. Hollis and I happened to be driving by when we saw someone break into Coyote Tattoos.”

Aubrey gasped.

Jake Coolice nodded in quiet agreement. “The man was mentally unstable, kept screaming to Pod about how something was moving under his skin. Hollis and I stopped and ran inside. We managed to call the police and they detained the man—last I heard, he had been sent to a mental institution.”

“That’s terrible,” Aubrey breathed. “I can understand why they want more people around.”

A strange expression crossed Jake’s face. “There’s more,” he said quietly. “They did an investigation but found nothing out of the ordinary except for the suddenness of the attack. Thing is? Pod never felt right in their own space after that, and Hollis and some of their friends used to stay during Pod’s work hours to make sure nothing bad happened. That’s where we had our...falling out.” he sighed.

“I don’t understand,” Aubrey admitted.

Jake hesitated. “I am glad that Pod is okay,” he said slowly. “I am upset that they were so scared to be so alone afterwards. But at the same time...this is an extreme sports club, not a motorcycle gang. I had no interest in being a thug. The police were eyeing us—for good reason, but nobody wants the attention of the law.”

As one they all looked at Agent Agent who ignored them as he sipped his tea.

They turned back around. “Yeah,” Jake finished awkwardly. “One of the reasons I quit the stunt club. I think Pod designed the Hornets logo for them when they rebranded.”

Aubrey nodded absently. There was a different thought playing on repeat in her head: _why would a tattoo artist be so scared for their life?_

When Dani elbowed her, she realized that she had been staring off into space. “Well?” Dani demanded. “Show us!”

Taking off her jacket and rolling up her sleeve, Aubrey decided that it wasn’t any of her business to wonder what Tamo’s life was like.

* * *

Callisto circled them lazily on her motorcycle in a final farewell before she drove toward the driveway. Even though Callisto couldn’t see them, Tamo waved.

The small group waiting for her did and they waved back. One of them popped a wheelie but almost immediately hit a pothole and wobbled.

Tamo held their breath until the Hornet (it looked like Kevin, but at this distance they weren’t certain) righted themselves without falling off their bike. Why they all liked to ride such death traps, they would never understand.

Then again, this _was_ a stunt group. Tamo shook their head, groaning when it twinged in pain. Perhaps a nice long soak in the tub would be in order.

The group revved their engines and sped away, the sounds of their bikes echoing against the trees and bare rock faces. Tamo continued to wave until they were completely out of sight.

Rolling their head to stretch the stiff muscles of their neck, they walked to the car, parked beneath the flickering streetlight. They’d need to call the building super to talk to them about fixing it. Honestly, they weren’t sure how long it had been like this but it couldn’t be good.

Their car chirped as they unlocked it and as they blindly reached for the handle, they closed their eyes and rolled their head on their neck, trying to ease the tense muscles enough to drive. Something moved beneath their car; a living shadow that moved like an octopus on land, one shiny black tentacle at a time. Lights moved beneath its surface like bioluminescence as it tangled with their shadow as it appeared and disappeared with the flickering street light.

Tamo didn’t notice, rolling their shoulders as they decided if they should take the next morning to visit one of the local spas or if they just wanted a long soak in their tub at home.  

A dark silhouette appeared over their shoulder in the window of the car. It was a masculine shadow carrying a spiked bat over his shoulder and soft lights shone from it as if lit from behind: blue and red and gold like flames, with tendrils of aqua that twisted as if caught in an unseen current.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to ask my tattoo artists what their favorite or strangest tattoos were. They tell me that they're not usually upset by nudity but sometimes they feel really weird about doing tattoos of lighters high enough on someone's leg to for the back of their hands to brush things that they didn't want to name.
> 
> Tamo's studio is based on a bunch of things that I liked from the various studios I visited. The last tattoo place I went to had a bunch of tall cubicles covered in black cloth with cloth hangers so each artist had their own space. Tamo has options for these as well as a large open area for people that come in with large groups of friends to watch and comment. The photo area is based on my friend's shop: all artists want to take pictures of their work, but they rarely make do with anything other than their phones. the owner of my friend's shop wanted to focus on the artistic quality. 
> 
> Since it looks like I'm going to get caught up in this, I'm gonna consult with my friend who does tattoos more. She always has interesting facts for me. Did you know that green ink is the most annoying one to use? It is known to bleed out beneath the skin sometimes--so sometimes if there's a lot of green on a tattoo, the skin around it will look stained or bruised. Or did you know that the most common allergic reaction to tattoos is to red ink? 
> 
> As ever, this is [Fai's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaHae/pseuds/FaiaHae/works) fault. 
> 
> Feel free to come and yell at me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). If that's not your thing, I can also be found on tumblr at [ClassyWastelandBread](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/) but I haven't been quite as active there. 
> 
> ~DC


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words of warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and keep a regular(ish) schedule of updates on Sundays/Mondays. That will give me time to write, review, and send it to [Fai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaHae/works) to beta it. 
> 
> On that note, special thanks to Fai for instigating this and then beta'ing it. I take great enjoyment of hearing your thoughts, your corrections to my shitty grammar, and that one time we were on voice call and I got to listen to you screaming _"STERN YOU IDIOT"_
> 
> I am also a little sorry for telling you about "look at the flowers".

Leo Tarkesian caught Duck on the walkway of their apartment building as he began walking out, skateboard in hand. “Be careful,” he said gravely. The silence stretched awkwardly between them.

“I admit that it’s been a while since I’ve skateboarded quite this often,” Duck told him. “I almost miss the whole running thing. Maybe I should just get a motorbike or something. But I’m wearing a helmet and tomorrow I’m going to stop by the store to get my other protective gear. Elbow pads and knee pads and those weird ones that go on your hands—"

“I wasn’t talking about the skateboard,” Leo interrupted, as gently as his grizzled voice could manage. He was dressed for work and walked with Duck down the hall and stairway to the parking lot. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride at least to the store.”

Duck gave him a shaky smile. “I’ll skitch a ride, could use the balance practice.”

Leo gave him a long hard look that was both  _ you  _ do _ need to work on your balance _ and  _ boy, you’re an idiot _ . “Get in the car, Duck.”

After a moment of hesitation Duck obeyed, tucking the skateboard into the footwell between his knees. Leo climbed in and started the car. Some kind of pop music blared; Leo immediately turned the radio off as he buckled himself in.

“Leo…”

Leo grunted, bracing his arm against the back of Duck’s seat as he turned to back out of the stall. He turned back around and shifted the car into first gear. “Peapod was attacked again.”

On instinct Duck sucked in a breath, feeling his heart skip a beat at the word ‘attack’; a primal response of concern as a member of a community. Then he paused, the words sinking in. It wasn’t that he wasn’t concerned about Pod but…

“Again?” he asked.

“Could be just coincidence,” Leo told him gruffly. “Peapod’s fine but the doctors wanted to keep them overnight for observation. Sounds like they got hit in the head pretty hard and they wanted to check for concussions.”

Duck sucked in a sympathetic breath. “They’re okay though?” he pressed.

“Seem to be,” Leo agreed. “’Least that’s what I heard. I’m sure they’re pretty shaken up by it, though.”

For a long moment they could only hear the rasp of tires, the gentle hum of Leo’s engine, the whisper of the air passing by the windows. “Why are you telling me this?”

Leo gave him a  _ look _ out of the corner of his eyes. “‘Once is happenstance. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is an enemy action,’” he said with the air of quoting someone. “We’re just as fragile as anyone else in town now, Duck, and Kepler isn’t a  _ violent _ town.”

“Just a general warning to be careful?” Duck asked, deflating a little. Part of it was relief; part of it was the terrifying reminder that he wasn’t Chosen anymore.

He wasn’t special.

Leo grunted. “There’s something going on,” he said at last. “Perhaps it’s only Peapod, only their business, but it’s got everyone in town on edge. There’s someone out there that would attack Peapod.  _ This time _ they didn’t stick around to see what happened—that means that they’re still out there.”

“The last time he was caught,” Duck remembered. “He had stuck around because he was actively targeting Pod.”

Leo nodded, not taking his eyes off the road. “But this time they did the equivalent of a hit and run. Maybe they’re still after Peapod and was scared away, maybe not.”

“Their shop is rather out of the way,” Duck mused. “And I think they’re the only shop open that late in that plaza. It could be coincidence but…” he shook his head. “I’ll pass that news on.”

“You do that,” Leo agreed as they turned down the road toward the ranger station. “And you be careful where you stick your nose. I’m going to check in on Peapod—we had a meeting today about signage. Obviously that’s not going to happen until they’re released but it would be rude of me to not visit.”

Duck made a face. “You lied.”

“I’m being cautious.”

Shaking his head, Duck let him have his way without fuss and waved to him when he was dropped off at the station. Leo nodded once and shifted his car into gear, rumbling down the path again. He greeted Juno absently as he walked in, focused instead on Leo’s words.

_ Once is happenstance. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is an enemy action _ .

That seemed ominous.

“Hey,” Juno said. “Did’ya hear about Pod?”

Duck nodded absently. “Yeah, Leo told me about it. Some of it, at least.”

“Is that why he drove you up here?” she wondered, squinting through the window as if she could still see his car. “I know you guys live close.” She shook her head. “It’s a shame. Poor Pod’s all rattled about it. I don’t blame them. Wonder what Hollis is gonna do.”

“Hollis?” Duck asked with a frown. “Not the sheriff?”

Juno gave him a pitying look as if disappointed that he wasn’t up to speed on the town drama. He had his own to worry about, thanks. “The Hornets had been the ones to scare off the first attacker,” she reminded him in a tone of voice that suggested that he was being deliberately dense. “Since then, there’s always one lingering around.”

“Except last night,” Duck suggested.

“Except last night,” Juno agreed. She bounced in her seat as if excited at the thought of a mystery. “So I wonder what Hollis must think.”

Duck wondered the same. “Let the police worry about it,” he advised Juno, who rolled her eyes.

“As if I’d go out for vigilante justice,” she grumbled. “That ain’t me, Duck.”

It wasn’t, but Duck was worried more about her curiosity, and worried that she’d be poking the bear if she asked too many questions. He said none of his musings out loud and focused instead on the bulletins that he missed overnight.

_ Once is happenstance. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is an enemy action _ , he told himself and then shook his head. Look at him, quoting Leo—like all of this was some kind of conspiracy!

God, he’s beginning to sound like Ned, too. Disgusted with himself, Duck turned back to the bulletins.

There had been a new one posted this morning:  _ hikers traveling alone or in small groups are advised to be on the lookout. After an attack on a local shopkeeper late last night on the western side of town _ —here they gave the date and an estimated time of 23:30— _ an unknown assailant ran off into the woods. Police had not been able to apprehend them. _

Duck shivered. He flagged the bulletin to read more in-depth later and moved on to the next one.

* * *

“Here on official ranger capacity, Mama, Barclay,” Duck said as he walked in. Juno followed close behind, the both of them having agreed wordlessly to remain with each other at all times.

There was no telling what was out there.

“What’s wrong?” Mama asked, looking between the two of them.

Duck shook his head. “Just a precaution, but we thought we’d swing by to give a quick warning to you and your guests.” He and Juno outlined their own bulletin and the news of the attack on Peapod.

He could see that Mama could read between the lines, as did Barclay; Aubrey, who had come close enough to overhear, gasped. “Oh no, poor Pod.”

“What?” Jake asked. They shushed the two of them.

“Just be careful, alright?” Duck asked, with a sharp look at Aubrey who nodded. “See if you can keep hikers from going out alone. We don’t know what’s out there. Fortunately, so far it was just a relatively minor attack, but there’s no telling what they are capable of.”

Aubrey nodded. “I was just gonna go into town,” she admitted. “Me and Dani were going to visit The Cryptonomica to help Ned prepare for Friday Night Dead for a little.”

“Oh, that thing?” Juno laughed. “It’s so cheesy!” despite her words she didn’t sound derisive.

“Maybe take someone else with you,” Duck suggested.

Aubrey frowned. “We can take care of ourselves!” she said hotly.

“That’s not what he meant,” Mama told her, much to Duck’s surprise. She gave first Duck then Aubrey pointed looks. “We know that you two can do more than take care of yourselves, but we don’t know much about what’s in the trees.”

“Oh!” Aubrey murmured, catching on. “Right. Hey Jake, wanna come with?”

Jake nodded so quickly that for a moment they were concerned that he’d get whiplash. He said nothing, pressing his lips together tight enough that there was a ring of white around them.

Seeing nothing more for them to linger about, Duck nodded and walked back out to their ATVs to continue their rounds. Juno lingered in the doorway and Duck laughed as he swung his leg over his. “You make eyes at her as if you’re about to go on a long sea voyage. Should I tell Mama that she should build a Widow’s Walk for you?”

Giving him a foul look and a rude gesture, Juno climbed on her ATV and started it. “You’re one to talk, Mr. My-Boyfriend-May-As-Well-Be-A-Cryptid.” Duck was glad that she couldn’t see the way his face blanched. He struggled to get his expression under control as she drove her ATV next to his. “Ha!” she crowed. “I knew it! You don’t have one!”

“I do,” he retorted and shook his head, realizing that he was acting like a child, arguing  _ do too, do not, do too _ back and forth endlessly.

Juno stuck her tongue out at him. “If he’s so real, then you will have no problem inviting him to dinner. See you tonight at seven!” she revved her engine and rumbled off.

Scrubbing a hand over his face in preparation of convincing her of against it, Duck wondered which was more difficult about his day: an attacker loose in the woods or Juno.

* * *

Aubrey found Tamo playing with an etch-a-sketch when they all peeked into their hospital room. For a moment she just watched the artist, dressed unflatteringly in a loose hospital gown. Their lilac hair was tied in a messy bun on top of their head—just as they had worn during Aubrey’s tattoo—and from this angle Aubrey could see the undercut shaved into the back of their head and neck. There was an elaborate tattoo under their hair, tracing down their spine beneath the back of their gown.

They looked up, adjusting the plain black-framed glasses on their face, and smiled. “I’m surprised they let you in.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Aubrey told them. “I’m sure you’re sick of visitors.”

Tamo’s lips twitched and they gestured to their empty room. In a corner there was a generic stuffed bear holding a heart that said “Get Well Soon”. There was a small bunch of plain flowers in an equally plain vase in the windowsill. “Standing room only,” they said dryly. “Come in or go out, but decide. You’re like my cat, I swear.”

Aubrey watched Tamo’s face as first her, then Dani, Jake Coolice, and finally Agent Agent filed into the room. They seemed amused, smiling softly when they saw Jake, and laughing outright when they saw Agent Agent.

They all carried small vases of flowers and cards which they arranged around Tamo’s room. Aubrey handed them the cards with a comment: from Mama, from Barclay, from Dr. Harris Bonkers, Ph.D. and Tamo chuckled.

“What happened?” Aubrey asked, sitting at the edge of the bed.

Tamo made a face. “I’m not sure,” they admitted. “I was just leaving the shop when they came up behind me.”

“Was it a mugging?” Jake asked. “Or was he attacking you again?” He swallowed, looking nervously around as if afraid that someone would come out, would hear. “You know...the guy from last time. Was it him?”

“I suspect that if it was the same person, I would not be here,” they told him grimly.

Aubrey shivered. “That’s terrifying,” she said quietly. “Are you feeling okay?”

They gestured at their head. What Aubrey had at first thought was the shadows from their violet hair was really a swollen lump on the back of their skull. “Aside from a few aches and bruises, I am fine,” they assured her.

The doorway was suddenly filled with people, the Hornet that Tamo had called Callisto and Hollis at the head. “We heard what happened,” Hollis said, their face dark. They looked at Aubrey, then Jake, Dani, and Agent Agent.

“Relax,” Tamo told them gently. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Callisto demanded. “Head wounds are nasty.”

Tamo made a face. “So the doctors have told me. Repeatedly. No, I am fine. They kept me here as a precaution so that they could make sure I didn’t die in my sleep.” The Hornets didn’t look reassured by their dark humor. “When I spoke to the nurse earlier, he told me that I should be able to leave soon.”

“Next time we’re escorting you home,” Hollis told them firmly.

“It’s hardly an issue,” Tamo protested softly. “I can’t justify having babysitters 24/7.”

Much to Aubrey’s surprise, Hollis stepped forward and gently put a hand on Tamo’s wrist. They leaned close and whispered something that she didn’t catch. Tamo sighed and nodded stiffly.

Looking at the group, Aubrey was surprised to see a dark look cross Jake’s face. It disappeared a moment later and she wondered if she had imagined it.

Hollis left soon after, with another pointed look at Tamo and a touch to their wrist. They communicated back just as silently, patting Hollis’s arm and waving at the rest of the Hornets. Aubrey only noticed then that they had pawprint tattoos on their palms.

_ Focus _ , she told herself, even as she wondered if she could get tattoos of Dr. Harris Bonkers, Ph.D’s beans on hers. How much would that hurt? But wouldn’t that be cool? Maybe in shades of red oooh, or white? Was there such thing as a white tattoo?

It was as Tamo had told her the other day: once you get one tattoo and realize that it’s not so bad, you want more.

The Hornets all left, their faces dark as thunderclouds. Hollis lingered, looking over the rest of them. They eyed Jake before nodding once at Tamo and leaving.

There was something there, something that Aubrey was missing, but despite her curiosity she knew better than to ask. Especially when Dani gave her a  _ look _ like that.

“It’s nice to see you again, Jake,” Tamo said to him. “It’s been a while.”

Jake cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I wish that I didn’t keep seeing you when you were attacked.”

“You can always visit,” Tamo pointed out dryly. “But I suppose that the potential for Hollis to be there is off-putting? Or any Hornet you might know?” They didn’t seem to expect an answer, turning to Aubrey. “What brings you here?”

“We received a bulletin at Amnesty Lodge,” Agent Agent said and Aubrey made a face to herself. “That nobody should be in the trees alone. The local rangers had received a notice as well that there may be someone hiding in the woods but nobody knew how dangerous they were.”

Tamo sighed. “I almost feel guilty for that.”

“Dani and I were going to go to The Cryptonomica,” Aubrey jumped in. “But  _ someone _ insisted on coming along.”

If he was upset by that, Agent Agent gave no sign. “I wanted to check in as well,” he admitted. “I’m glad to see that you’re okay. When you hear that someone’s in the hospital…you rarely think the best.”

Tamo made a face. “It was only for observation, but I’d rather not be here all the same.”

“Did you see anything?” Aubrey asked. “What happened?”

“I’m sure the police have already questioned them,” Agent Agent pointed out.

Tamo shook their head very slowly, as if it hurt to move. “None of them believe me. I don’t expect them to.” They gave a hollow laugh. “I had locked up the shop and watched Callisto and the others leave—I suspect that they feel like they should have prevented something, martyrs the lot of them. Then I walked toward my car. It gets hazy after that; I suppose that’s the only way to justify what I saw…or what I didn’t see.” They shook their head again and winced, lifting a hand to rub the back of their neck and the edges of the lurid bruise. “I was just opening the door to my car and then.” They made a face and clicked their tongue with a gesture like they swung a bat at an invisible target. “Must’ve been right behind me.”

“Hiding in the cars?” Aubrey suggested. “What time did you leave?”

“It was around 11:30 I think,” Tamo murmured. “The shop closes at 11 but since I didn’t have that many clients today we started cleaning up early. And once Callisto and the others left, there was nobody else in the parking lot.”

Despite his stiff demeanor, it seemed that the promise of a mystery appealed to Agent Agent. “In the bushes, perhaps? Or maybe around the corner?”

“Maybe,” Tamo agreed. “To the corner part. But then they’d have had to come up where I could see them and then up behind me, unless they had started running when I walked out.” They shrugged and winced again. “When I got to my car there was nobody there and then there was.”

“What happened next?” Aubrey asked.

Tamo sighed. “I fell. It hurt like a  _ bitch _ .”

“Who called the police? Did you?” Agent Agent asked.

“It was all I could do to not puke.”

Aubrey glared at the Agent who ignored her. “What happened next?” she asked. Only then did she notice that Tamo’s eyes were two different colors. There was a name for that but she couldn’t remember it. Hetero-something.

Hetero-whatever the Latin word for “eye” was. Maybe.

Probably not.

“—fuzzy,” Tamo was saying. “Then I woke up to Deputy Dewey.”

Something didn’t add up. “Then who called the police?” Aubrey wondered.

“I don’t know.”

She frowned. “What about the person that attacked you?”

Tamo laughed and winced. They probably still had a pretty bad headache. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Will you hand me that cup please?”

As Aubrey obeyed and Tamo drank, she thought hard. It was so dangerous with Agent Agent there to ask, but she wasn’t sure if the questions could wait.

“I’ve seen a lot of strange things,” Agent Agent said quietly. “And I came here looking for Bigfoot, something that not a lot of people believe in—especially in this area. I don’t know if I’ll believe you, but I at least won’t make fun of you.”

Tamo watched them with their different-colored eyes as they drank deeply from the cup. “I barely believe it, myself,” they admitted. “I think I was just…I don’t know, I think they hit me too hard for me to see anything but they looked like starlight. Like a piece of the sky had come down. There were stars and nebulae swirling around and little orbs of light.”

Aubrey tried not to show her concern but wasn’t sure if she succeeded. At the same time, she didn’t want to make them think that they were insane.

“That sounds like a head wound,” Agent Agent admitted. “But these orbs…tell me about them.”

So Tamo did while Aubrey’s stomach churned. They described glittering orbs that spun, that glowed with gold and white light as if the very air was coated with glitter. They described a living shadow that had taken human form but began to fray at the knees, drifting off into a hundred little spiderweb-like fibers.

They described how it had stood over Tamo with a featureless face-blob and how the bat that had struck them had sunk into its starlight skin.

Aubrey swallowed and couldn’t imagine how Tamo could say it all with such a straight face. Their eyelashes were clumpy, their eyes too wet, and Agent Agent reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a handkerchief, offering it to Tamo before realizing how awkward that might seem. Or so it seemed to Aubrey. Agent Agent was hard to read.

“Wow,” was all Dani said, looking at the handkerchief. “You’re taking old-fashioned to a _ whole _ new level.

“Handkerchiefs are coming back in style,” Jake protested, having been uncharacteristically quiet until then. He fell silent, his mouth shutting with an audible click.

Tamo chuckled weakly and accepted the scratchy hospital tissue that Aubrey offered. “I’d hate to ruin your nice handkerchief,” they assured Agent Agent. “I think I still might have some makeup on my eyes.” They blew their nose, made a face, and threw away the tissue in the trash bag hanging from the railing. Taking another, they dabbed at their eyes and then their nose, and threw that one away too.

“That’s terrible,” Aubrey said quietly. “What did the police say?”

Tamo snorted. “Do you think I told them? No. I just said that the person was wearing a mask and then ran away.”

“Not that I think you’ll be left wanting with Hollis,” Jake said quietly. “But if you need anything tell me, okay?”

Dani nodded and jumping on the bandwagon, Aubrey leaned close. “Yeah. If you need anything, you just let us know, alright?” she glared at Agent Agent when he said nothing.

He took a few steps to Tamo’s other side and patted their arm awkwardly. “For what it’s worth,” he said very quietly, and Aubrey’s stomach turned in all kinds of knots. “I believe you. And I don’t think you’re crazy.”

Aubrey, Dani, and Jake traded nervous glances.

* * *

Tamo sighed as Hollis finally left them alone. They meant well but sometimes they were simply too overbearing, too overprotective.

It was sweet when it wasn’t frustrating.

But that wasn’t fair.

They were worried for their friend. It was evident in every shaky movement, every time they poked their head into Tamo’s space. Callisto was, too; and she felt guilty for shirking her duties.

To give them some peace of mind Tamo allowed the both of them to sleep over, Hollis taking the guest room across the hall from their bedroom and Callisto opting for the couch. It really should have been the other way around, Hollis’s frame much more suited for the couch but Callisto insisted.

Perhaps because she felt that she deserved some kind of punishment for letting Tamo get hurt.

They plugged the tub and turned on the water as hot as they could bear it, sitting at the edge as they watched the water slowly rise. Normally they might indulge in a bath bomb but the too-sweet smells would just make their head hurt worse. Tonight, they only wanted the heat to bake out the pain in their muscles.

Still, a little bit of lavender went a long way and soon they felt their shoulders begin to unwind by the smell alone.

Hollis had been ready to have kittens when Tamo suggested it, terrified that they would drown. They felt bad for scaring them so, but they needed this—and they needed to have a moment alone.

They turned off the faucet and slipped into the water, careful to keep it from spilling over the edges. As they submerged themselves up to their neck, they sighed contentedly. Their head throbbed but it was a pain they could easily ignore and the cool tile against the bruise on the back of their head was heavenly.

Like clockwork they began to hear a rattle, the hiss of plastic over tile, and they peeked an eye open. “Hey, kitty, kitty.”

Another rattle. They sighed and waited until plastic tapped deliberately—and quietly—again. An etch-a-sketch was propped up against the edge of the bath, braced against the faucets. On it was a message: OKAY? SORRYSORRYSORRY.

“I will be,” they breathed. “Don’t fret yourself over it.” They chuckled quietly. “You hit hard. If that was ‘light’ I’d hate to see what would happen if you really meant to hurt me.”

The etch-a-sketch rattled. They leaned their head back, let their eyes slide closed until the plastic stopped rattling. 

WHY DID YOU ASK ME TO DO THIS?

“You said that there was trouble,” Tamo whispered back. “You said that  _ they _ were trouble. I needed to figure out who they were and what they knew or thought they knew.” They sank lower into the water until it brushed their lips. “Ever heard the phrase ‘always watch the watchers’? I think I saw it in a crime show once but it can be applied to everyday life: watch those that are paying attention.” 

They sighed and slipped beneath the water, letting their knees poke out of the water as they submerged themselves. The hot water made the lump on the back of their head hurt worse and they sighed, pushing themselves out of the water again. 

Wiping their face, they found that something else had joined the etch-a-sketch on the rim of the tub. It was vaguely cat-shaped but instead of four feet and a tail it fell apart into sticky strands like wet spiderwebs of ink-like goo. Golden lights served as its eyes while more flowed along its shiny body as if it were made of liquid. 

Seeing them looking, it dissolved part of its shape and moved as no living creature could, rolling around the edge of the bathtub toward their arm.  Tamo reached out and drew their fingers through the shimmering surface of the cat-creature; it rippled like some viscous liquid before settling again. After over a year with the creature, they could “read” some of its emotions.

They laughed, swirling their fingers again and watching the lights ripple and bob. “I had a lot of visitors today,” they agreed. “But only a few asked me more in-depth questions about who attacked me—most were content with asking how I felt.”

The creature swirled, moving along their skin, coiling around their forearm. It curled there in a pool before lifting a blob that shaped itself into the head of its favored cat-shape.

Or so Tamo imagined; it was hard to tell what the ink creature liked and didn’t.

“I plan to do nothing for now,” they assured it. “Just rest and get better. Keep an eye on them. Aubrey comes back to finish the rest of her tattoo in two weeks.”

The ink creature swirled, the lights shimmering brighter before dimming. Its golden eyes watched them intently.

Tamo sighed, closing their eyes. “Perhaps,” they agreed as if it had spoken. “I’ll see what happens between now and then. We can decide the night before their appointment.”

They could feel the ink creature move, leaving their arm. It made quietly little sounds as it crawled along the edge of the tub; the etch-a-sketch rattled.

Peeking an eye open, Tamo smiled when they saw the ink creature drawing. It was too early to see what it was creating, but it was soothing to watch the ink-like tendrils move the knobs of the toy around, to watch the little grey pointer move around on the off-white surface.

Tamo sighed again, letting thoughts of FBI agents and too-curious people fade from their mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come and yell at me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). If that's not your thing, I can also be found on tumblr at [ClassyWastelandBread](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/) but I haven't been quite as active there. 
> 
> ~DC


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which surprisingly PG bedroom shenanigans occur. 
> 
> The writer reminds everyone of their love of food. 
> 
> A date is attempted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So funny story I almost accidentally skipped over this chapter. 
> 
> Beta'ed by the wonderful [FaiaHae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaHae/works) and I'm honestly not sure why they haven't strangled me yet. I _will_ say that it was incredibly entertaining to listen to them read it while on voice chat with me.

Stern was drawn from his work by a knock on the door.

He paused, rubbing his eyes tiredly, and leaned back in his chair, his arms above his head as he stretched. His shoulders and back and neck cracked and he sighed. Getting to his feet, he rolled his head on his neck and shuffled toward the door as the person on the other side knocked again.

The knocks were too quiet to be Aubrey, Stern mused. He peeked out the peephole and was surprised to find Barclay standing there, fidgeting with the hemp bracelet around his wrist.

Stern unlocked the chain and deadbolt and pulled the door open. “Hello, Barclay. What can I do for you?”

For a moment the cook of Amnesty Lodge fidgeted, looking at Stern and then away. “Everyone’s out tonight,” he blurted at last. “It’s date night or something, and a lot of them went to Saturday Night Dead at The Cryptonomica.”

_ Shit _ , Stern meant to go to that. He didn’t say this to Barclay and nodded for him to continue, hoping that he didn’t look annoyed.

“And Mama is having  _ her _ date night in the kitchen,” Barclay added and Stern could kind of see where this was going, just not what it had to do with  _ him _ . “So, I was wondering…if you wanted to go into town with me?”

Stern eyed Barclay. He always seemed nervous around him, always fidgeting with his bracelet or looking away quickly when Stern looked at him. It didn’t make sense for him to start seeking out his company all of a sudden and something in him twisted at the thought that Barclay wanted something from him.

A favor; information.

“Just dinner and maybe a walk around,” Barclay added. “I would go myself but…”

Ah.

The attacker in the woods.

A strange sense of relief flooded through Stern. Relief and a surprising amount of disappointment, the cause of which he couldn’t determine.

“I see,” Stern murmured. “When were you thinking of leaving?”

* * *

After taking a quick shower and changing his clothes Stern found himself in the car with Barclay on the way in to town.

There was an almost awkward silence stretching between them, broken only by staticky songs from the local radio station and the sound of the car around them. Occasionally Barclay gave quiet directions but otherwise continued to fidget in the passenger’s seat while Stern drove.

Stern wanted to say something but refused to stoop quite so low as to inquire about the weather that they could both see. He had the damndest feeling that he was missing something and it ate away at him as he drove.

They parked at the nearby plaza and looked around at the food stands. The Pizza Hut was still closed after its sign had fallen—apparently the struts or whatever had been holding up the sign had failed as well, taking out a chunk of the ceiling. As they tried to repair it, they found that there were more structural issues that needed attention. Nobody was sure that it would open up again.

“It’s Saturday night,” Barclay commented, an odd observation to make before Stern caught on.

Saturday night—one of the busiest nights of the week.

Some of the restaurants they passed were full with people grouped outside, looking at their phones while they waited for openings or reservations or the rest of their party to arrive. Most were talking amongst themselves despite their eyes being drawn to the glowing screens in their hands; everyone waited with the air of having done this before, being used to such waits, having done this for many Saturdays as some kind of tradition amongst their family or group of friends.

“Pizza Hut would almost have been better,” Barclay commented.

Stern snorted before he could stop himself and mimed weighing two options in his hands. “No wait; shitty pizza.”

To his surprise Barclay barked a startled laugh that cascaded into something more natural. “I think I could make better pizza when I’m blackout drunk.”

A part of Stern wanted to challenge him to do so; to offer to supply the alcohol. He wasn’t sure if that was appropriate for the kind of relationship they had.

He wasn’t sure it was appropriate with  _ anyone _ .

Fortunately, the moment passed without lapsing into more bouts of awkward silence. Barclay pointed out a few other options that seemed to have less of a wait. “Diner?” Barclay suggested at last, with an air of growing desperation.

“I’m sure food will turn out faster,” Stern agreed slowly. “But is the food good? I’ve had…well, it’s been hit-or-miss for me with diners.”

Barclay’s smile somehow made the knot in Stern’s throat loosen just a little. “Pretty good for a diner,” he assured Stern. “Their burgers are really good but…I’d recommend against some of their chicken dishes.”

“Burgers it is,” Stern said and smiled back at Barclay.

The hostess gave them a bright smile. “Just the two of you?” she asked with a knowing look at Barclay that Stern couldn’t quite interpret.

“It’s date night at the Lodge,” Barclay mumbled. “Mama took over the kitchen.”

For whatever reason the hostess seemed to find this very amusing, her eyes flicking to Stern and back to Barclay. She led them to an empty booth, set down their menus, and promised that their server would be with them shortly.

Stern watched her giggle as she walked away. Turning back to Barclay, he found that the other man had his face buried in his hands. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Barclay muttered. “I just…forgot that she was here.”

“Ah,” Stern said even though he didn’t understand. He picked up the menu. “What’s your favorite burger?”

It was the right thing to ask a cook, it seemed: Barclay had a lot to say about the diner’s burgers and just about everything on the menu. For a while Stern occupied their attention that way—it was easier to fake conversation this way, and it was interesting to hear Barclay’s take on the fare offered by the diner.

Dinner passed similarly. Stern asked Barclay about his cooking career. He got a little cagey at that, his eyes darting around nervously, and gave an answer that sounded halfway to a lie. Stern didn’t say anything to Barclay, didn’t call him on his almost-lie and had no desire to, and instead just listened.

Perhaps he should do this more often, he realized. Just…take a break—a brief one—from his investigation. It was nice to not think about clues to Bigfoot or the thing that had attacked Tamo. Surely he could take an evening off every now and then?

And the company was nice. Barclay, once he seemed to get over his nervousness, was a good conversationalist. Aside from asking Barclay about his cooking career, he was relieved that Barclay seemed inclined to steer all conversation away from work—and, Stern was relieved to note, Barclay didn’t bring up the reason for Stern’s appearance in Kepler.

Stern paid for dinner and Barclay offered to pay for drinks at the Lodge so that they didn’t drive tipsy in the dark woods around town. By then it seemed that a lot of the Lodge’s visitors and residents had returned from their adventures.

He found himself in the kitchen with Barclay, his sleeves rolled up with the cook’s help, stirring an enormous pot full of cider. It was Barclay’s not-so-secret recipe, apple juice flavored with mulling spices and chunks of apple and orange peel and then spiked with bourbon.

They all talked late into the night, playing a handful of the games that were scattered around the lounge area of the Lodge or stored in the rooms of its residents. After spectacularly losing a game of Jenga, Stern decided that it was time and past for him to go to bed and stumbled back to his room.

By now his routine in his rented room was ingrained in him, enough that he didn’t need to think.

Close and lock the handle, deadbolt, and chain.

Undo his tie (if he wore one) and the first few buttons of his shirt in the doorway.

Do a quick sweep of the room and close the windows if he hadn’t before he left.

Remove his shirt and hang it in the hallway closet. Brush his teeth, run his wet fingers through his hair and immediately regret it.

Take off his pants and hang them up, replacing them with a worn pair of novelty sweatpants that had cartoonish Yeti printed on them; take off his undershirt and pull on a worn tee and climb in bed.

Sighing he closed his eyes, settled into the soft pillows and mattress and duvet, and fell immediately asleep.

* * *

Once more he woke up to find someone with him in his bed.

This time he found out because Barclay sat up and  _ yelled _ .

Startled awake, Stern flailed and fell out of bed, narrowly missing hitting the nightstand with his forehead. For a moment he lay there, face-down on the carpet as he contemplated his near-miss with a visit to the hospital, before scrambling to his knees.

He nearly smacked his head into Barclay’s on the way up, the other man having scrambled over to make sure that he was okay.

Stern would have been much more okay with this if he didn’t find that Barclay was naked.

Now he almost  _ wished _ that he had hit his head as he yelled and clapped his hands over his eyes. Barclay swore—strange since Stern wasn’t sure he had ever heard him say such foul things—and when he peeked around his fingers, he found that Barclay had pulled a pillow in front of him to hide his nudity.

Stern resolved to burn the pillow because keeping it would just be weird.

“What are you doing in my room?” Stern asked, using his hand to block his view of Barclay from the chest down. He looked around again to verify that this was, in fact, his room.

Barclay frowned. “I was in my own room to begin with,” he said a little crossly, far more upset than Stern had ever heard him. “And I woke up here.”

“This is getting annoying,” Stern grumbled, stumbling to his feet. He wasn’t as drunk—or hungover—as he had been the morning with Duck, but he did still feel the effects of the alcohol he had consumed the night before. “Why are you naked?”

Barclay somehow managed to look hurt, annoyed, and embarrassed all at once. He scratched at his nose. “Ah, I sleep like this.”

Nodding, Stern stumbled toward his drawers and yanked them open, throwing a pair of sweatpants at Barclay and a loose shirt that he thought might fit. Then he ducked into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He really wanted a shower, but it would be rude—and incredibly unsafe—to do so while Barclay was still in his room. It was bad enough that Barclay had been  _ naked in bed with him _ —he didn’t need to watch him get dressed.

Stern didn’t need to be constantly reliving this moment in his dreams, for better or worse.

When he came back out, Barclay was dressed, the sweatpants—decorated in Bigfoot designs, something he had bought in the PNW as a joke—too short on him. He wondered if this was how he died—scandalized at the tempting show of another man’s ankles like they were in the 1800’s or whenever that was a thing.

Barclay fiddled with his bracelet. “Um…I’ll just…” he nodded awkwardly toward the door and Stern unlocked it for him. It was both reassuring and not that once more the door had been locked—and he would bet that like last time, the window would be closed as well. “Um…I don’t know what happened but…”

“This is getting annoying,” Stern said and flinched when Barclay looked hurt. “No, not you, just…I’m starting to wonder how this is happening. Duck found his way in here the night of the Paint and Sip and now…” he shook his head. “I went to sleep alone and now…”

“I get it,” Barclay said softly.

Stern snorted. “It’s like this place is haunted but that’s ridiculous.” He shook his head. “I’d just ask that if you ended up in my bed, I at least remember it.” He yawned, entirely missing the dark blush that showed up on Barclay’s face. “See you at breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Barclay croaked and as Stern was wondering if there was something wrong, he fled down the hall.

As he closed the door, he heard Aubrey yell further down the hall,  _ nice pajamas, Barclay! _

Shaking his head, Stern closed the door and very carefully locked it. He tested the door. It didn’t open and Stern was in an interesting position to be both grateful and unnerved. Walking across the room he threw open the curtains and tested the windows—they rattled within the acceptable range of the locks on the frame but were otherwise firm. Opening both the pane and the safety screen, Stern poked his head out.

There were marks along the exterior as if branches had scratched at the walls, despite no trees being anywhere nearby. Looking around, Stern caught sight of Dani and Aubrey looking at him like he had caught them doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing. Aubrey waved hesitantly and he nodded back.

“Did you scratch my window?” he called down at them.

“Tell Barclay,” Dani called back. “Is it damaged?”

Stern shook his head and pointed at the siding. The grooves weren’t deep enough to make it through the sill or the varnish of the wood, but it was enough for Stern to see plainly; Dani probably couldn’t see it from the ground.

“No, just the sill and the edges of the window,” Stern called down. Aubrey had left but he could hear the murmur of her voice nearby—just out of sight, then. Dani took a few steps closer, shading her eyes with one hand and squinting up at his window. “You probably can’t see it from there,” he added, pointing at the worst of the marks. “It’s just weird. Like a tree was here.”

Dani nodded. “I’ll mention it to Barclay and Mama,” she called up. “They might check the varnish but if the window’s not damaged…?” Stern shook his head. “Well, they’ll probably look into it regardless.”

Thanking her, Stern closed and locked the window. He was about to close the curtains when he noticed something else: a bit of thread that had been pulled up in the sheer curtains closest to the window. He touched it, felt the puckered fabric on the side closest to the room before moving his hand to the opposite side and feeling the pulled thread.

Brushing it off as a bit of damage that he hadn’t noticed before, Stern was about to close the curtains again when he found more scratches along the inside of his windows. They drew pale grooves along the interior windowsill, some of them digging marks into the edges—not sharp enough to cut through the thick layer of varnish but sharp enough to make a groove in the wood.

Running his thumb through the mark, Stern shook his head. Looks like someone had brought their cat to the Lodge. How strange.

He closed the windows and resumed his sweep of the room.

* * *

A part of him was not surprised that breakfast was late, but he was startled to see Jake in the kitchen. He poked his head through the window. “Do you need any help?”

Jake looked so relieved—a strange turnaround from the looks he typically received—that he pulled his head out and walked in through the swinging doors. “Thanks,” Jake blurted as Stern pulled on an apron nearby and rolled up his sleeves. “Barclay got a bit hung up this morning—managed to lock himself out of his room somehow—so Mama asked me to cover while—”

Stern nodded at the right times, letting Jake’s frantic voice wash over him as he measured out coffee into the coffee machine, and started making eggs and breakfast sausages. There was a rasher of fancy-looking bacon in the fridge labeled with the current date—Stern wasn’t sure if it meant that it was portioned that day or it was the effective use-by date, but he figured that regardless it could be used for breakfast.

He set Jake to finding and cutting up onions, peppers, and mushrooms, finding and grating some cheese, and washing bowls of baby spinach. Jake seemed to be glad to have something to do though he admitted that he wasn’t as comfortable in the kitchen as Barclay or Stern.

“I worked in a restaurant in high school,” Stern admitted. “Nothing fancy—I was just a busboy and on occasion a waiter or a host—but sometimes I’d take my breaks in a corner of the kitchen and just watch everyone.”

When he turned around, he found Jake grinning at him—it was rather odd. “You look comfortable here. Less like a suit.”

Stern made a face. “Begone!” he was surprised at how his chest loosened when Jake laughed. “Take the coffee out with you and while you’re out there, go on and ask everyone what they want in their omelets. I’m a little out of practice so they won’t be as pretty as they’d get with a  _ real _ cook, but I’ll get them something soon.”

Finding a bowl of grated potatoes, Stern seasoned them and was tossing them on the griddle with butter and oil when he heard the door open. “That was fast.”

“What are you doing in here?”

Whirling, Stern found Barclay standing in the doorway, looking disheveled and quite alarmed. Jake saved them by poking his head through the service window. “Order up!” he yelled gleefully. “I had always wanted to say that. Hey, big guy!” to Stern he added, “I got a few others to get, but I thought I’d portion it out so I don’t overwhelm you.”

Stern took the scrap of paper—written on some kind of stationary—and looked it over. Thankfully, nobody asked for egg whites but it all looked more or less to be simple enough. “If you’re just going to stand there, get out,” Stern teased Barclay as Jake ducked his head out. “Or you can work on the potatoes and the breakfast meats.”

He bungled his first omelet but fell into the swing of it on the second. Barclay added the rest of the order, garnished with a pinch of scallions, and yelled out the window, “Dani!” as he walked back to the griddle, he asked Stern, “where did you learn how to cook?”

“High school job. I was a busboy and waiter but took my breaks in the kitchen,” Stern told him. Barclay’s face lit up and Stern found himself smiling back.

They finished up breakfast this way, with Jake running orders in and out of the window, and were just cleaning up when Mama poked her head in. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

“I figured that Barclay was having a bit of a rough morning,” Stern told her apologetically. “And Jake looked overwhelmed.”

She shook her head. “Please—”

“I know,” Stern agreed. “Liabilities. Safety and all that. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

Mama eyed him for a few unnerving seconds before her expression softened. “Regardless, thank you for helping out, Agent Stern. Your assistance was greatly appreciated. You’re right—we did have a bit of an eventful morning, and I appreciate that you didn’t let our guests suffer for it.”

Helping Barclay load the dishwasher, Stern eyed the Lodge’s cook. “Did you make it back to your room okay?” he flushed, realizing just how suggestive that sounded.

It seemed that Barclay did as well because he turned bright red and looked anywhere but at Stern. “It was…alright,” he agreed. “I’ll wash your clothes and get them back to you later today—thank you for letting me borrow them.”

“I could hardly expect you to walk around naked,” Stern told him quickly, feeling strangely embarrassed. “Not that…well, I’m sure people wouldn’t be expecting someone to be walking around naked, not in the morning and not in this lodge. Nudist colonies maybe, but not here. Just saying that it could be a worse sight.”

Barclay choked. “Yes,” he said awkwardly. “Well, it was a bit of a morning. I had to climb in my own window.”

Frowning, Stern looked at Barclay. “Like Duck had to?”

“Actually,  _ I  _ climbed in his window, but yes,” Barclay replied, eyeing him like he had already told Stern too much.

Stern took the hint and didn’t press. “Weird things,” he said instead.

“Yeah.”

Their easy camaraderie broken, Stern finished cleaning with Barclay and took his now-cold breakfast outside to eat on the veranda. He ate while staring out at the dark trees, thinking over these new mysteries.

Of galaxies in ink moving in spiderweb patterns, of people that somehow managed to make it into his bed despite locked doors and closed windows. He was only here to investigate Bigfoot, he told himself. Not to get caught up in all these other mysteries.

Still…

He picked up a piece of bacon with his fingers and chewed it absently. Unexplained phenomena…

Laughing to himself, he finished his piece of bacon in two bites, shoveled the rest of his omelet into his mouth, and walked back inside.

* * *

Tamo opened the back door of their apartment, closing it quietly behind them. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

They peered around, squinting their eyes through the early morning gloom. The floodlights aimed into the service alley behind their apartment had been broken for as long as they could remember, no matter how often the landlady claimed that she’d fix it “soon”.

“Soon” would never come, of course. The Shady Lady would make sure of it, even if the landlady got off her lazy arse and did what she claimed she’d do. They smiled and leaned out over the railing. What they wouldn’t give to see what the Shady Lady would do to the landlady, but that would bring too much attention.

Peering out into the gloom, Tamo’s eyes lingered on the darkest shadows and searched the alley for movement. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

None of their neighbors were awake at this ungodly hour—and that would continue to be true so long as they were quiet. Still, there was no response and they were becoming concerned. Then they saw a bit of a shimmer moving unnaturally through a patch of shadow. Stretched out until it was transparent, the Shady Lady darted into the shadows beneath the stairs where they would be easily mistaken for some kind of vermin digging through the rubbish for food scraps before following the lines of shadows up the stairs.

Kneeling, Tamo offered a hand to the Shady Lady and it slipped into their palm, folding and folding and folding itself until it was a black little lump the size of their fist. Standing, they drew it inside and sat on the couch, now Hornet-less.

As much as Tamo liked the Hornets, their clinginess could be frustrating sometimes. Not that they could blame them—and not that they didn’t appreciate their protection. If they worked around the Hornets, then they could do much more—and much  _ better _ —work.

They poured the ink-like creature out of their cupped hand on to the table where it reshaped itself into a glowing cat as if it were some kind of dark ink poured into a glass mold. Lastly the golden lights that served as its eyes—or at least the seeming of eyes—appeared in their proper place. More shifted beneath its inky skin among the galaxy-like colors of its swirling body.

“Where have you been, you silly thing?” Tamo wondered, offering the etch-a-sketch to the creature.

The Shady Lady swirled and wrapped around the etch-a-sketch, rapidly moving the knobs to form a series of pictures: a badge reading  _ FBI _ , a bed, a window, a building that was too small for Tamo to definitively identify. They thought it might be the Amnesty Lodge.

“Were you messing with people?” Tamo asked sharply. “ _ An FBI agent  _ of all people? What did you do?” when it, swirling in distressed bubbles like boiling wax, they sighed and reached out their hands. “You said so yourself: there is more work to be done. We cannot keep doing your work if you bring too much attention.”

They could almost hear the Shady Lady’s sigh and then it reached out an inky tendril to wrap around their extended hand.

Smiling, Tamo squeezed the tendril gently. “I’m not angry at you, silly thing,” they murmured and held out their other hand, allowing it to climb into their palms. They lifted the ink creature in front of their face. “You just underestimate humans. We’re curious things and we always need to know even if it’s none of our business.” They sighed. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The Shady Lady swirled in their cupped palms then lifted into a peculiar kind of mist; it returned to the etch-a-sketch and wrote SORRYSORRYSORRYSORRY.

Smiling, Tamo twisted their fingers into the edges of the mist like a confectioner twirled candy floss. “You’re still learning,” they said gently. “And that’s why you have me.”

The etch-a-sketch rattled as the Shady Lady erased it and drew a jellyfish.

Tamo nodded. “We still have time,” they said. “There is danger in placing a seed in her tattoo. She said that she’s here indefinitely—and this is attention we do not want.”

It seemed frustrated and swirled like a miniature dust devil around the etch-a-sketch.

“You want her?” Tamo sighed. “We’ll have to be very careful,” they warned. “I did not say that I would help you, just that it would be difficult. Come on. I need to get some sleep and you can help me design tomorrow’s tattoo—or perhaps I should say  _ this morning’s _ tattoo.” They cast a foul glance at the window as it began to lighten with the first rays of dawn.

After a pause to erase the etch-a-sketch, the ink creature slipped over their skin to pool in a collar over their neck. It had decided that it liked that spot, but fickle thing that it was would draw too much attention to the changing designs on their throat. So Tamo had gotten a throat tattoo for the Shady Lady to follow when it chose to perch there.

They were quite pleased with the art—if you looked at it just right, it almost looked like eyes were staring out from their throat.

Yawning, Tamo stood and stretched, reaching up to press gingerly at the bruise at the back of their head. Then they shuffled off toward their bedroom. “I think you’ll like it,” they said. The Shady Lady rumbled in reply. “Yes, it’s a monster from a book so not a true cryptid for the series, but I’m sure you’d love to attach something to it. It’s called Mbwun, ‘ [ He Who Walks On All Fours ](https://monsterlegacy.net/2013/10/20/monster-gallery-the-relic-1997/) ’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come and yell at me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). If that's not your thing, I can also be found on tumblr at [ClassyWastelandBread](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/) but I haven't been quite as active there. 
> 
> ~DC


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a brief interlude. 
> 
> And Beacon is not happy. ~~But when is Beacon _ever_ happy?~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the awesome [FaiaHae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaHae/pseuds/FaiaHae/works).

“Something’s on your mind,” Indrid observed somewhat distractedly but Duck knew that despite what he sounded like, Indrid _was_ paying attention. “I can’t quite tell what it is, though.”

Duck smiled weakly. “I have a lot on my mind. I’m sure my head sounds pretty ‘noisy’ to you.”

“Not as noisy as Aubrey’s,” Indrid said dismissively. He looked up from his sketch, peered at Ned over his red lenses. “What is on your mind, Duck?”

He shrugged, fiddling with a corner of one of Indrid’s many drawings scattered about the table. “I was curious how your visions work.” It wasn’t a lie—he _had_ always wondered—but it was only part of what was on his mind.

Indrid seemed to sense this, staring for a moment longer at Duck as if to say, _okay, I’ll play your game_. “It’s like seeing shapes and colors on the wind. To you I suppose it might be like watching the leaves in the fall be blown past you in the wind. Does that make sense?” Duck cocked his head to the side and tried to imagine it. Indrid smiled. “You’re standing still and all around you are piles of leaves. The wind picks up and suddenly all of the leaves are flying past you and around you. On each leaf is a single scene. This is what I see. For each action, for each choice that any one person makes, there are a thousand branches of potential futures.”

He lost Duck at the images on the leaves. “I don’t know how you haven’t gone mad.”

Indrid shrugged. “It’s all relative. I’ve known this all my life or at least most of it—to me this is very normal.”

“Was there ever a time where it wasn’t?” Duck wondered.

For a long moment Indrid peered at Duck. “Yes,” he said slowly and didn’t elaborate. Duck knew better than to press. “Is this what you wanted to know?”

“I had a lot on my mind,” Duck said absently and fiddled with the drawing. It was the outline of a cat next to a dumpster; the one next to it showed a car that looked like Leo Tarkesian’s, a hand on the window, and a skateboard. “I had always wondered, though.”

Indrid hummed. “I cannot choose what I see,” he said gently. “So I cannot, say, see the lottery numbers. It simply…does not work that way.”

They lapsed into silence again and Indrid folded his fingers in front of him on the table, watching Duck. “I was just thinking,” he said lamely. “And…fuck, I’m not blaming you, but I was thinking about Pod.”

“Who is Pod?” Indrid asked gently.

Duck shrugged. “Local tattoo artist. Well, general artist I suppose. They do a lot of things in town. Yesterday they were attacked, sent to the hospital overnight for observation.”

“You think that I should have warned them? That I should have seen it?” Indrid asked, frowning.

“No!” Duck assured them. “Not at all. It was just…” he fumbled for the words. “I was just thinking. Shit fucking happens, ‘Drid, and we can’t be coddled through it and warned of boo-boos and scrapes.” This was more than a bit of a boo-boo though. Pod had been in the _hospital_. “It’s not your responsibility to protect humans from humans. We can get ourselves killed well enough on our own.”

Indrid watched him for a long moment. “For any given action I can see a dozen futures,” he said at last. “If I saw this attack, I could have seen Pod dying, or fighting off their attacker, or trying to escape; or I could have seen them _not_ get attacked and that could have been the future that happened.” He reached out and put a hand on Duck’s wrist. “The future is never set in stone—it can always be changed. Right now, I can see four futures with you crashing your skateboard that I will never tell you about because there is a dozen where you do not. I cannot give you…an ‘accurate’ warning because there are too many variables.”

“You wait for something more concrete,” Duck realized.

Indrid nodded. “I wait for a decision to be made—in Pod’s case, I would have waited until their attacker decided that they would strike. If I had been ‘watching’ for that, of course. But I wasn’t. I’m looking for disaster, for abominations—not for the goings-on of individual people.”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” Duck quoted grimly.

“You must think me callous.”

Duck shook his head. “Never,” he promised. He flipped his hand over and took Indrid’s, tangling their fingers together. “You’re right.”

They fell silent for a while. Duck tried to imagine again what Indrid must “see”; his thousands of futures stemming from a person’s many choices.

He laughed suddenly and Indrid looked concerned. “I get it,” Duck said through chortles. “It’s like the butterfly effect except…” he snickered to himself as Indrid’s face twisted, “seeing” what Duck was about to say. “Except it’s the mothman effect.”

It was truly a terrible joke that sounded much better in his head than out loud. Indrid slapped his arm but when Duck peered at him, he was smiling, too.

* * *

Hollis walked down the forest path with their hands shoved in their pockets. A part of them was a jittery mess, anxious to sit beside Pod and follow them as close as a shadow; the rest of them knew that they needed this break.

They and Pod both needed to be apart for a while.

Pausing, they took a moment to look around at the trees. They loved the outdoors in any weather. In the winter the trees were lined with white, their branches drooping straight down; their favorite was the days after freezing rain, when ice had formed on the trees, giving everything a shimmering quality.

As if everything was coated in a layer of crystal.

They loved the smell of spring—of flowers returning from hibernation, of the sun warming up the resin in the trees. It amused them to see the cars covered in a fine dust of yellow and the puddles on the sides of the street ringed in it as everything was sloughed off by rain or garden hoses.

Summer was less fun, the sun beating down on their quiet little town, but there were other things to do. Visits to the lake, to the creeks; swimming and whitewater rafting and fishing though they detested it the latter. The past year the Hornets had been able to save up to get a few jet skis and stuff for wakeboarding.

By far, their favorite season was fall; for those few fleeting days where the entire forest—save for the evergreens—was dressed in gold and orange and russet. Each tree changed color at their own pace, filling the world with a hundred different hues of leaves. The air was cool with the hint of winter and the crunch of leaves was a lovely accompaniment to the whisper of the wind through the trees.

They could get lost in the forest and be happy a thousand times over. _My Side of the Mountain_ had ignited a love in them that they had never imagined and some days, when things got too complicated, they were tempted to follow in the spirit of Sam Gribley and live on their own.

Well away from the hiking trail, Hollis found a fallen tree and took a brief rest. A check to their GPS showed that they were only 400 meters away from their next pin—they were making good progress. They munched on a handful of goldfish crackers (perhaps not the best snack food for hiking, Hollis thought dryly to themselves, but it was a fine treat nonetheless) and drank from the water bottle they carried in their bag.

After a moment to appreciate the scenery—listening to the chatter of the trees and squirrels and birds, relaxing under the warm rays of the sun beating down on their face—they got to their feet again. Making sure that their new tattoo was still covered, they continued walking.

They hadn’t traveled to their secret space often enough to have created a small trail in the brush so finding a stick, they used it to brush aside the worst of the brush and brambles that grabbed at their jeans.

Pausing, they consulted their GPS again and turned slightly to their left before continuing on. Soon rough brush gave way to knee-high grasses and then a trail made springy by layers of moss hidden by loam and dirt.

Hollis paused and touched a nearby tree. Perhaps irresponsible, but they had carved a marking into the bark to mark the way. It was subtle, cut to look like the eyes of aspen trees, and Hollis paused to run their fingers over the scars in silent apology before they continued on.

Now they didn’t need to consult their GPS because they knew where they were. Brambles formed a natural wall that reminded them of the stories they read of the Maasai in Africa, who surrounded their settlements with thorn bushes. Woven into it were trails of clinging ivy that Hollis had encouraged to grow, thickening the cover of the small clearing.

In the fall the chill ate away at the soft tissues, leaving behind the polished skeletons of branches and vines to grow back again in the spring. Many times Hollis had camped out here, listening to the eerie skeletal dance of the wind in the brambles.

“It’s been a while,” they said out loud to the space. It was like one of those liminal spaces and sometimes if they spoke just right it felt like the clearing heard them.

Ridiculous; crazy.

It suited Hollis just fine.

“I was thinking of bringing some flowers, but I’m not sure that I want to be responsible for introducing invasive species.” They chuckled and took their bag off. “But I did find some of these mountain laurels. I thought it would be nice.”

They had paused to dig it up just off the trail before they had left it. That way they knew that it would be at least somewhat compatible with the local ecology. They had seen a few wild blueberry bushes so they considered taking clippings of those and seeing if they would survive in this area.

Ultimately that would depend on the soil.

Taking out a small trowel from their bag, they set to digging, clearing a space in the dirt and moss for the small shrubs they had uprooted. “It’s funny,” they mused as they carefully packed the dirt back around the small shrubs, checking that they were well supported. “I hate gardening most of the time but when it’s my own space…I don’t mind it as much.”

Maybe they should visit the ranger station, they mused to themselves as they stood and surveyed their work. See if they had lists of the native flowers for this county, then visit the local garden shop to see if they had seeds or clippings.

They thought that they remembered seeing rhododendrons in the area and azaleas. Those seemed common enough, and they supposed that they were pretty. Wouldn’t that be a sight, if this entire clearing were filled with flowers?

Dusting their hands off, they leaned back against a nearby log and relaxed for a moment, watching the silhouettes of the trees above them rake across the puffs of clouds that drifted across the sky. They were forecasting rain that night and Hollis could see the first few hints of it in the light grey streaks and the darkening of the horizon.

Sighing, they got to their feet and quickly packed up. Perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to plant things. On one hand, the rain would water the new plants; on the other, the weatherman predicted high winds and heavy rain that would last through the night, both of which might wash them away.

Hollis patted the waxy leaves before shouldering their bag and exiting their private little hideaway. Patting the carved tree again as they passed, they consulted their GPS and set off toward the trails. By the time they exited the trees they could feel the drop in temperature and pressure in the air, the increasing whip of the wind.

They found Pod sitting on a lonely picnic bench under an equally lonely gazebo as they reached the parking lot. Perhaps “picnic bench” was too hopeful—as Hollis approached, they found that it was a simple concrete table with a colored square surface that was perhaps large enough to fit four if they sat very close to each other.

“Did you leave someone behind?” Hollis called as they approached Pod.

Pod looked guilty, offering a rueful smile. “I think they got bored,” they admitted after checking their watch. “I haven’t heard from them in a few hours.”

They both looked toward the parking lot and found the Hornet Jamison smoking and sitting on the tailgate of their truck. Hollis wrinkled their nose. “Nah, he’s just smoking.”

“I know how much you hate that.”

Hollis looked at Pod out of the corner of their eyes, leaning against one of the posts of the gazebo. “I can’t control what they decide to do to themselves,” they said at last. “I wish I could if only to tell them to put that away but as long as they don’t ruin it for the rest of us or put us at danger I can’t really complain.”

Today Pod’s eyes were their natural shades and they wore their glasses which had begun to slip down their nose. They nudged it up with a finger to the bridge and smiled ruefully. “The contacts were giving me a headache,” they admitted though Hollis hadn’t asked. “Or rather, moving my head back to put them in. I figured that I may as well just go with glasses.”

“I like them,” Hollis agreed. “It’s a good look on you.” Pod stuck their tongue out but their smile was sincere. They were self-conscious about their eyes—or rather, didn’t like people pointing them out. Hollis was an exception.

The wind whipped and Pod yelped as their sketchbook fluttered, slapping their hands down on their supplies to keep them from flying away. A colored pencil skittered off the edge of the table and Hollis caught it.

“Wind’s picking up,” Hollis commented and looked up at the sky. The sky above the trees was beginning to darken and the race of the wind brought the smell of rain to them. “Come on, we can probably beat it back to down. I’ll give you a ride if you don’t mind the motorcycle. Unless you drove?”

Hollis stepped in and helped Pod clean up, carefully placing the many types of pencils back in their case and grouping together eraser shields and French curves and other drawing paraphernalia that went so far over Hollis’s head that they may as well have been in the stratosphere.

“I didn’t,” Pod answered belatedly. “Drive, I mean. Jamison gave me a ride down.” They made a face. “I still have a headache and the smell of smoke wasn’t the most pleasant.”

Shaking their head, Hollis stepped back as Pod loaded the last of their supplies into their case and zipped it up. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.” They released Jamison who looked guilty to have been caught smoking. He put out his cigarette, threw it away in the nearby dispenser, and climbed into his truck.

As the first few drops of rain fell and the sky rapidly began to turn green, Hollis climbed into their car.

“Sorry,” Pod said, climbing in a little later, their phone in their hand. “The sky was _amazing_.”

Hollis smiled. “Have you gone hiking in those trails?”

“A few times. Not today though—no telling who’s out there.”

So reminded, Hollis frowned. “That’s right, they never caught them.” Their mood darkened.

“It’s okay,” Pod told them gently. “I was safe enough. I don’t need a bodyguard 24/7.”

Hollis made a face and they drove in silence until the rain caught up to them, thundering on the roof of the car. Hollis slowed and turned their windshield wipers up to the max speed in an effort to be able to see _anything_ through the torrential downpour.

“Come on,” Pod said as they arrived at their apartment. “I have stuff for tacos—you’re welcome to join me. It’s ridiculous to go out in weather like this. Stay a bit and see if it dies down.”

They both were soaked to the bone by the time they got into Pod’s apartment and they laughed at each other as they wrung out their shirts and hair. Pod helped them wash their new tattoo, poking at the tender skin and the beginnings of scabs and seemed pleased with how they were taking care of it.

It was far from their first tattoo, but Pod was like that. They liked to check in on their work. If given the opportunity, they would probably check it every day as if afraid that it would run away.

Hollis supposed it was only fair, especially given how often they checked in on Pod.

Cleaning done, Hollis dug around in the guest room where they kept a spare change of clothes and joined Pod in the kitchen for tacos. Once upon a time they had been unnerved by the idea of a smoked pulled pork taco—with no barbecue sauce!—stuffed with cabbage stewed in pork juices and topped with a salted salmon salad, but now they were eager and made an embarrassing sound when they bit into the first one.

Pod smiled and made a small bowl of food for their ever-elusive cat that Hollis had never met and set it on the back porch before sitting at the table with Hollis.

“You’re spoiling me,” Hollis grumbled halfheartedly. Pod’s eyes smiled as they took a big bite of their taco and didn’t answer. “You still haven’t given me the recipe.”

Laughing, Pod nearly choked on their food. “Maybe I won’t,” they teased. “I’ll string you along like a drug addict.”

Hollis grinned. “You got me,” they said dryly. “I’m the latest victim of the craze that’s been sweeping Kepler—of a drug called Tamo’s Tacos.”

They both laughed. “Maybe I’ll open a taco shop. Tacos while you wait!” Pod joked.

Still laughing, they continued to eat until they couldn’t manage another bite. Hollis insisted on washing the dishes while Pod put the food away. “What were you doing out in the woods, anyway?” Hollis wondered.

“Drawing landscapes,” Pod explained. “Taking pictures. I’m thinking of doing another nature painting. I like the shapes of the trees against the sky, especially when some of them are just skeletons.”

Hollis frowned. “There’s…a place I go to. You’re…welcome to come with me.”

They could feel Pod’s eyes on them. “Why do you sound so hesitant?” they wanted to know.

Making a face, Hollis found that the plate in their hand was still dirty. They scrubbed harder at it. “I haven’t told anyone about it,” they admitted. “And…I didn’t want you to think this was a date.”

Pod snorted. “I’m glad we cleared that up,” they said. “But no offense, Hollis…I’d never date you.”

Hollis stuck their tongue out at Pod who flipped them off. “It’s a private place I go to. Off the trail—I have to use a GPS point to find it.” Pod made an intrigued noise. “I think you’d like it. You can lie back on the moss and stare up at the sky. And it’s surrounded by bushes and brambles…I’ll show you sometime. When the ground isn’t soup.”

They wondered about the little mountain laurels they had planted. Where they washed away by the downpour?

“I’d like that,” Pod murmured. “If you’re willing to share your space with me.”

Hollis smiled. “When the weather clears up in a few days,” they promised. “I’ll take you. It’ll be a nice picnic—and I’ll bring a book so you can do your thing.”

“It’s a date,” Pod teased and Hollis gave an exaggerated groan. They splashed water at Pod who squawked indignantly.

By the time they finished cleaning up dinner and the mess they left after a brief water fight, the rain had slowed to more bearable levels. Hollis left with a bundle of food and a borrowed umbrella shaped like a lightsaber (they threatened to steal it and Pod had only shrugged).

They waved to Pod as they passed the kitchen window and jogged down the stairs to their car. As they were pulling out of the stall, they happened to glance up and realized that there was a silhouette in the kitchen window with Pod.

A cat.

So Pod _did_ have a cat. Perhaps the poor thing was shy.

Making a mental note to ask Pod the next time they got together, Hollis shifted the car into drive and turned down the road to make for home.

* * *

“Come on in, ya dummy,” Duck said, trying to sound stern but failing. “You’re going to catch cold.”

Indrid laughed, spinning around with his arms spread wide to either side, his palms to the sky. “That’s not in my future,” he teased. “Besides, we’re stuck out here for a while since you don’t want to get wet.”

“Hey, sugar melts,” Duck told him and his heart did little flip-flops when Indrid laughed. He watched Indrid play around in the puddles, jumping in them and sending up murky splashes. “I thought you can’t handle the cold.” He laughed. “Despite your name.”

“This _is_ very uncomfortable,” Indrid admitted, panting as he slowed his play to look at Duck. “But I know I’ll be warm soon. And it’s worth it for the rain.” He tipped his head back and the rain made little rattling sounds as it bounced off his red glasses. “You _could_ join me if you wanted. There’s nobody nearby.”

“Maybe,” Duck agreed even as he began unbuttoning his ranger shirt. “Or I can _not_ get sick.” Beacon was placed on a chair nearby, followed by his jacket and uniform shirt. It was followed by his shoes and socks. “I’m keeping my pants on,” he grumbled in mock annoyance.

Indrid laughed. “No, you’re not,” he said with that almost manic smile he got when he saw a future he really liked. “Come on, there’s nobody here!”

“Just because you like to run around in the rain in your boxers doesn’t mean that _I_ want to.” Even as he said it, Duck began to unbutton his pants and wondered when Indrid had learned to manipulate him like this. “What if someone catches us?”

Laughing, Indrid darted close and drew him into the rain with icy hands. He was beginning to get pale with cold but his cheeks were bright pink as he grinned at Duck. “There’s nobody here,” he whispered, drawing Duck close, pressing a cold kiss to his cheek.

Duck yelped when Indrid _lifted_ him, his arms around Duck’s thighs beneath his ass. It made Indrid have to arch his back and neck to look up at Duck and gave him an interesting vantage point to look down at Indrid.

Unable to help his silly smile, Duck laughed and leaned down to kiss him. Indrid hummed against his lips and behind his red glasses Duck could see him close his eyes.

“You taste sweet like sugar,” Indrid said with a smile that Duck could feel against his lips. “But you’re not melting!”

“Har har,” Duck grumbled, pretending to be annoyed. “Very funny.” He lifted his hands to brush his fingertips against the frames of Indrid’s glasses. “May I?”

Indrid’s smile faded and he looked strangely unsure. “You…don’t need to.”

“What are you afraid of, ‘Drid?” Duck asked, curling his fingers to brush his knuckles against Indrid’s cheeks.

He could see Indrid blink behind his glasses. “There’s a non-zero chance that you will run away screaming,” he said. “Even knowing that you’ve seen me before. This is up close and you cannot deny…”

“That you’re not human,” Duck finished when Indrid trailed off. “Well, yeah. I know that. And…I feel bad that you might…that you might feel like you need to pretend to be human. I mean, you’re _holding me up_ right now and I’m not…I’m not small, ‘Drid. You’re holding me up like it’s nothing. I won’t run screaming but…it’s not fair to you to always need to pretend around me.”

Indrid gave him an inscrutable look. “Duck,” he said at last, burying his face in Duck’s thin undershirt. He sighed. “Duck, if you really want to...then yes but…”

“You don’t want to lose me,” Duck guessed when he trailed off. “You think I’m going to run away screaming.”

“You were very upset the first time you saw me,” Indrid pointed out, sounding resigned more than anything. His breath sent puffs of warmth through Duck’s wet clothes. “You asked me to put my disguise back on.”

Duck tried to run his hand through Indrid’s wet hair and made a face when it stuck together. He settled for rubbing his fingertips into the back of Indrid’s neck. “Well, I was a dick,” he said gruffly. “I shouldn’t have said it. I...didn’t know how important to me you would become. Humans don’t have the ability to see the future.”

From the look that Indrid gave him, it wasn’t reassuring, nor was the joke appreciated.

Then he sighed and tipped his cheek into Duck’s hand. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Knowing that it was as much permission as he was going to get, Duck swallowed and leaned down to kiss Indrid. As he pulled back, he drew Indrid’s glasses off.

It wasn’t a slow transformation. One moment he was the human-shaped Indrid that Duck had come to know; the next moment he was the Mothman.

Yes, it was just as unnerving and uncomfortable to stare so closely at him. There were so many features that were inhuman that Duck wanted to be afraid. The triangular head and little tufted crest between two enormous red eyes. Mandibles; his long feathery antennae.

The thick coating of white fur-feathers-whatever they were; the bib of bright orange over the thick ruff of fur over his shoulders and chest.

Seeing that up close, Duck was reminded of the thick fur coats worn by socialites and nearly laughed.

Indrid had four arms he found as he tucked Indrid’s glasses on top of his head where they would be out of the way and gently reached out to touch the fur on Indrid’s shoulders. Just as he touched the thick coating of fur, which felt somehow both soft and prickly, he felt another set of hands cup his lower back.

He jumped and then laughed at his own surprise. Moths had six legs, after all.

Carefully he lifted a hand and cupped Indrid’s cheek, running a thumb gently over the black markings of his face. “I don’t know where to look,” Duck breathed. He swallowed. “A part of me wants to be scared but...damn.” he watched Indrid’s antennae twitch and flutter, the enormous planes of his wings shift.

It was unnerving to stare into eyes that couldn’t blink, and Duck could see himself reflected in those hundreds of facets. The mandibles were somewhat terrifying, too. Not quite like an ant’s jagged pincers, much smaller but still just as obvious.

“Is it weird that I’m turned on?” Duck asked even though he was not at all. His hands shook just a little as he brought his other hand up through the tufts of hair-fur-whatever to frame Indrid’s face.

Indrid chuckled, a sound that was like a warbling chirp and like Indrid’s laugh in his human disguise. It was weird but it was yet another reminder that this was Indrid.

And they were both getting wet.

Duck smiled down at Indrid. “I’m getting serious _The Notebook_ vibes here. It’s raining, you’re holding me up, we’re almost kissing. You know how it is. Does this mean that I’m...oh what’s her name? The one that played the chick?”

Indrid laughed again and before Duck could think too much into it, could over-think his actions, he leaned close and pressed a kiss to Indrid’s forehead between his two enormous eyes.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re both going to get sick and die out here if we stay much longer. Let’s get warm.”

Two of Indrid’s four arms shifted so that one pair held Duck aloft by the back of his thighs and the other palmed at his ass rather cheekily.

Duck laughed. “If that’s how you want to get warm,” he teased. He brushed a thumb over Indrid’s alien face. “This...will take some getting used to. But I...I want to get used to it.”

The pair of hands that were palming Duck’s ass paused and one of them reached for his glasses where they were perched on top of Duck’s head. A moment later, after Indrid had somehow managed to make the glasses fit on his larger moth face, Indrid was kissing Duck back.

“It’s cold,” Indrid said simply. “I’d like you to warm me up.” He still sounded unsure, peering up at Duck’s face almost nervously.

“Yeah,” Duck croaked. “Please.” Indrid set him down on the ground and he tangled their fingers together; Duck nearly dragged Indrid back to the Winnebago, the both of them laughing and slipping through the mud.

* * *

“Duck Newton,” Beacon said disapprovingly. “Do not leave me out here in the rain, Duck Newton.”

There was a thump as two bodies collided with the side of the RV; then there was a quiet moan, the wet smack of lips, harsh breathing.

“On second thought,” Beacon said acidly. “Leave me out here. I hope I rust.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come and yell at me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). If that's not your thing, I can also be found on tumblr at [ClassyWastelandBread](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/) but I am almost never there so expect a delay. 
> 
> ~DC


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunches, exes, and splinters. 
> 
> And a tattoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the awesome [FaiaHae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaHae/pseuds/FaiaHae/works).

Duck walked past the General Store, weaving through construction barriers and various scaffoldings keeping any collapse from killing a pedestrian stubborn enough to walk next to the Store. Even though it had been some time since the Pizza Hut sign had fallen and most of the rubble had been cleared, contractors were still assessing the damage and coming up with proposals of how to fix it.

Turning down a nearby alley, Duck dodged the puddle in the middle and the line of dumpsters against one side.  _ Why was it that all alleys looked the same? _ Duck wondered.  _ The same brick walls, the same asphalt-concrete ground, trash and dumpsters and a puddle down the middle _ .

Holding his breath through the worst of it, he found the metal door of the back office of the General Store and knocked. He knocked again, harder, and gritted his teeth at the surprise bit of pain in his knuckles.

He still wasn’t used to this.

To his surprise it wasn’t Leo that opened the door, but Pod. “Ah,” they said in quiet surprise, their eyes flicking down to his name tag. Their eyes were hellish red today, and Duck suddenly remembered why they unnerved him. “Ranger Duck.”

“Duck?” he heard Leo call from behind Pod. “Ah, shit, I forgot.”

Pod stepped aside, holding the door open for Duck with an arm. “I suppose we did get a bit distracted,” they said to Leo. To Duck they said, “We started on-topic but I accidentally derailed everything by asking about local flowers.”

“Duck’s good for that,” Leo said with a wry smile. “What did you say the other day? ‘Large reservoir of botanical information’?”

Lifting a hand to their mouth, Pod hid a polite laugh. “I suppose you would,” they agreed. “But I won’t get between you two—it seems that you have business together.”

“We were just going to get lunch,” Duck assured them, feeling irrationally apologetic. Well, he supposed that he  _ did _ interrupt their meeting.

Pod smiled. “We  _ did _ hit a roadblock,” they admitted. “I can come back another time if that would work for you, Leo? And Ranger Duck, would it be alright if I stopped by the learning center sometime to pick your brain about flowers?”

“What are you wanting to know?” Duck asked and Leo groaned. “Just ballpark so I can see if we have pamphlets for you,” he added, rolling his eyes at Leo.

“Local flowers,” they said vaguely. “In the forest reserve. What’s native to this area. That sort of thing.”

Duck nodded. “I think we have a few booklets on that.”

He didn’t mention that most of them were for children, things similar to I-Spy games, and in coloring books that they would take with them on hikes with their parents. On one hand he was fairly certain that Pod would find it amusing; on the other, he wasn’t sure if it was insulting or embarrassing that most of their sources on local flora were for children. 

Pod cleaned up their notebook, tucking it into a satchel before bidding them goodbye and ducking out the door.

“I forgot how their eyes unnerve me,” Duck observed after waiting a moment in case they were still outside.

“They do tend to choose the unnerving colors,” Leo agreed absently. “I wonder what has them agitated, though. They don’t usually wear strange kinds of contacts to business meetings.”

Duck shrugged. It wasn’t any of his business. “Lunch?”

“Is that boyfriend of yours ever going to join us for lunch?” Leo wondered and Duck flushed bright red.

“You and Juno, I swear! She tried to get me to double-date with her, you know?” Duck made a disgusted noise. “Claimed that he didn’t exist. She’s still pouting that we didn’t show.”

Leo laughed, throwing his head back. “It’s because you’re always so…aloof. You keep yourself separated from everyone. Perhaps it’s a you thing; perhaps it’s a Chosen thing. Regardless, I’m glad that you let yourself have nice things.”

The reminder made Duck scowl. “We’re not Chosen anymore.”

“Perhaps,” Leo agreed. “But you’re still Chosen in a different way. Perhaps not with superhuman strength or endurance, but you’re still here. Being Chosen isn’t infinitive—that is, it’s not a constant state of being. The  _ powers _ are, but not that you were. Minerva Chose you for a reason, and that will never change.”

For a long moment Duck looked down at Leo.

Leo who was also a former Chosen One.

Someone who had spent  _ years _ acting as Minerva’s sword.

_ Someone who knows what they’re saying _ , a calm, logical voice that sounded like Indrid when he thought Duck was being silly whispered in his mind.  _ Maybe you should listen. _

Shaking his head, Duck ran his fingers restlessly through his hair. He sighed, closing his eyes and counting to ten and back. “I just…want some lunch right now.”

“Alright,” Leo said and Duck didn’t want to look at him and see what kind of pitying look he was giving Duck. “Was it raining outside?”

“It stopped but bring an umbrella just in case.”

“Alright,” Leo said again. “Let’s take the car just in case it pours again. I’ll drive you back to the ranger station. I could use the fresh air.”

As they filed out of the little office, something moved in the shadows. Two golden lights like eyes shimmered on a body like an oil slick, shimmering in veils of blue and green and purple and pink. More lights appeared on its body until it took the appearance of a miniature galaxy in the shape of a cat.

* * *

By supremely poor luck, the day that Jake Coolice chose to visit Pod was the day that Hollis was also there.

He stopped when he saw their bike outside and debated whether he wanted to go in or not, careful to keep himself out of sight of the door.

The door opened and he flinched when he saw Hollis step out. “Pod’s paying for lunch,” they said flatly, nodding their head at the Subway next door. “What do you want?”

Jake hesitated, fiddling with the rubber grips of his bike. “Same,” he said. “My usual. It hasn’t changed.”

Nodding curtly, Hollis walked in to the Subway and Jake locked his bike up. He had to scrub his palms nervously on his jeans before he could let himself open the door to Coyote Tattoos.

Pod looked up and smiled. They were wearing blood red contacts today but in Jake’s opinion, it was better than the times they wore all white or all black.

Just a little.

“I was wondering if you’d come in,” they said. “I was almost afraid I’d gained a statue in the parking lot.”

“Sorry,” Jake said. “I can—” he gestured wordlessly at the door again.

Pod snorted. “Stay,” they urged. “If you’re comfortable. If not, then stay long for Hollis to come back with lunch; I was serious about buying lunch for us.”

“It’s been a while,” Jake mumbled. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited.”

The smile on Pod’s face wilted a little. “I understand,” they said quietly. “I missed having you around but I get the reason why you left—and why you didn’t come back.”

Jake sat down heavily in one of their waiting room chairs. It was just as comfortable as he remembered it, and hissed quietly as the air trapped in the cushions very slowly released beneath his weight. “I’m sorry. That must have put you in an awkward position.”

They shrugged. “To an extent,” they agreed. “But…well, it’s not any of my business—and I was indirectly one of the reasons why you left.”

Looking down, Jake plucked at the knees of his jeans. They were beginning to fray and he rubbed a few of the blue threads around, poking at a section that was worn white by use. “Do you ever feel guilty? I mean in general, not…not that I’m blaming you for what happened.”

Pod snorted. “Guilt is a silly thing,” they told him. “It’s utterly ridiculous. It’s an emotion centered around thinking about actions that could have been for things that cannot be changed. But  _ I _ , no matter how I may think or wish otherwise, am only human. I am susceptible to guilt—and the silliest instance of guilt I feel is the day that I met you two.”

Wincing, Jake let his hand fall flat on his knee. “You do?”

“I am not the direct cause of your fallout and yet I am,” Pod told them gently. “Perhaps it had already been there and I was just the catalyst; perhaps I was the pebble the started the avalanche. That is not my business. But I see…”

Jake looked up when they paused, their lips twisted. They were playing with one of their lip piercings, today two black metal studs with orange stones that reminded Jake quite ridiculously of the crystal heart of  Sylvaine .

It was a particular kind of piercing that they seemed to like and Jake had always wondered. Pod had always had that weird kind of aura around them and paired with the peculiar stones in their piercing, he had always wondered if they were also a Sylph. 

“I am grateful for what you did that night,” Pod said at last. “Never doubt that—and I am infinitely grateful for what Hollis and the Hornets continue to do, as nursemaid-ish as it seems.”

Jake gave a crooked smile. “Like helicopter parents.”

“Exactly,” Pod laughed. “No, I am grateful for all they do. They seem to be happy to stay around and my customers tend not to get too aggressive when they’re around. I like the company and they volunteer their time to help around the shop; a few of them seem interested in apprenticing with me, almost like we used to be.” They extended their hands. “Life is good and yet…” they leaned forward. “And yet I see you and Hollis and know that in some ways  _ I _ was the wedge that split you right down the center.”

“I’m sorry,” Jake mumbled. “For making you feel that way.”

Pod snorted. “You don’t make me feel anything. I feel guilty about so few things—it is a stupid emotion that I rarely let myself indulge in—but in this case…” they trailed off with a shrug.

For a long moment they were quiet. The clock above the desk ticked loudly and in the working area, Jake could hear the fish tank gurgle.

“Do you still have all of your fish?” Jake asked, scrambling for something else to talk about if only to fill the awkward silence.

Pod motioned for him to follow and led him through the swinging doors to the working area. The fish tanks had been additions shortly before Jake first met Pod. The smaller of the two was repurposed from an old rabbit-ear TV, its walls reinforced and the glass sealed and replaced with Plexiglas to show the quiet waters beyond. A solitary betta fish resplendent in shades of wine red and deep blue patrolled these waters. A small snail crept over the small plastic skull in the back, its spiral shell and slow pace making it look ridiculously like some kind of unicorn-human hybrid.

The larger tank was of a more conventional size and shape. Water plants swayed in an artificial current, perpetuated by pumps and tubes built into the cabinet to hide most of it from view. Colorful fish that Jake couldn’t recognize fluttered between them, their scales catching the lights set into the top of the tank. This tank was tended by miniature catfish, some of which stuck to the clear sides of the tank where Jake could see its gills and mouth working.

“Wow,” he breathed. “They’ve grown.”

He was so enamored by them that he didn’t hear Hollis return until he heard the crinkling of plastic bags. “Are you joining us for lunch?” they asked flatly.

Jake flashed a quick glance at Pod. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Whatever.” Hollis walked back out to the front of the shop and settled down at the table there.

Looking at Pod who shrugged, he followed them back to the front. Lunch was an awkward affair, the silence filled with whatever DVD Pod had put in. Eventually Jake left with an awkward wave.

Pod turned to Hollis. “Really?”

“You planned this,” they accused.

“I did no such thing,” Pod snorted. “He visited here on his own. You could have been nicer.”

Hollis grumbled and stuffed the rest of their sandwich into their mouth. They chewed until they could shove their food into one cheek and say, “you know what they say.”

Leaning an elbow on the table and their chin in that hand, Pod raised their brows curiously. “Oh?”

“Exes can’t be friends. Or get back together.”

Pod hummed. “Have you considered that ‘they’ may be wrong?” they asked mildly. Hollis looked away. 

* * *

Boyd turned his head and pressed a kiss to Ned’s cheek. “Mornin’, sunrise.”

“Would you stop talking to my ass?” Ned grumbled, muffled by the pillow over his head.

Patting his flank almost affectionately, Boyd tipped his head up to grin at Ned. His smile faded slightly when he saw that Ned wasn’t looking at him anyway. Rolling his eyes, he shimmied up and pressed a kiss to Ned’s side and wiggling his stubble against his ticklish skin.

Ned sucked in a breath, jerking away, and lifted an arm to squint down at Boyd. “Don’t,” he warned. Boyd stuck his tongue out but obeyed, making a feign at tickling him again but shimmying up to rest his head next to Ned’s on the pillows.

“‘Don’t’ what?” Boyd asked too-innocently and Ned rolled his eyes.

“That act doesn’t suit you,” he said, sounding grumpier than usual in his sleepiness.

Boyd smiled. “But that’s how we met, my dear.” Ned grunted, letting his head flop down on the pillows again. “Pretending we didn’t know what the other was doing.” He let a hand trail gently down Ned’s bare back, following the curve of his spine to his coccyx before reversing the direction and bringing his fingertips up to the base of Ned’s skull.

Ned hummed sleepily, voice still muffled by the pillow. He wiggled, pulling his head out from beneath it—so Boyd had more skin to touch—before flopping his head back down.

He should still be mad at Ned—in some ways he still was—but moment like this in the hazy morning light made it easy to pretend that this was just a dream. Or that their time apart had been.

Ned made a soft noise when he brushed his fingertips around the dip where skull met spine. Smiling, Boyd reversed direction again and traced the knobs of his spine down, counting the bumps of his vertebrae before they curved—that natural curve and the artificial one from the way that Ned was lying. He deviated from bone to trace muscle, finding the dimples above Ned’s pelvis and running his fingers lightly over those.

With a soft sound, Ned squirmed. “’mm sleepy,” he grumbled.

“Relax,” Boyd replied. He thumbed at Ned’s tailbone absently before sitting up.

Neither of them were as young as they used to be and Boyd could see where age was catching up to Ned. The planes of his back weren’t quite as defined, the skin not hugging muscle quite as tightly. Ned was still surprisingly fit and Boyd found himself that, of all things, he most regretted not being there to watch these things change.

Instead he had to sit here and catalogue the things that didn’t match up with his fondest memories of Ned that had sustained him for so long. Somehow this is what he was the angriest about.

Grunting, he moved to straddle Ned’s thighs, earning him a suspicious look. “Relax,” Boyd murmured. He adjusted himself, making a face, and ran both hands from the dip of his spine up to his shoulders. His thumbs traced the bundles of muscles flanking his spine before branching above the scapula into the trapezius muscles over his shoulders.

Ned made a soft, pleased sound. “Miss this,” he mumbled.

“Which part?” Boyd teased. “The bed or the—”

“Don’t be crass,” Ned grumbled and Boyd smiled.

He let his hands drift down his back again to rest on the curve of Ned’s ass. “You know what ‘crass’ rhymes with.”

Ned grumbled. “I just want to sleep in.”

“And I’m behaving myself.” Color shifted between his fingers and Boyd smiled, parting the fingers of his left hand to look at Ned’s tattoo. “And I can’t believe you got a tattoo on your arse.”

“I was drunk,” Ned grumbled. His lies were never believable when he was this sleepy.

Not to mention that not many respectable tattoo artists—if any—would allow a drunk person to get a tattoo.

“Mmhmm,” Boyd teased. “I’m sure you were.” He traced the heavy edges of the border and was pleased to note that it hadn’t scarred too badly. A little bit of scarring was to be expected but too much was a sign that either Ned didn’t take proper care of it or the artist had bungled it.

He wasn’t too sure that he could really blame the artist though. Ned was a handful when he wanted a tattoo, got annoyingly chatty as he tried to ignore the pain—and Boyd was sure that the artist wasn’t the most comfortable with tattooing a grown man’s arse.

Still, the tattoo was nice if oddly simple for both of their tastes. It had a solid black outline in the shape of a shield and really, from the colors and simplistic design, it seemed to be a recreation of a patch. Boyd vaguely recognized it as the patch he saw on Ned’s jacket: bands of gold and orange like a sunset, a lone pine tree in green in the middle.

Unlike the patch on Ned’s jacket, the pine tree was in mid-sway, its trunk curved as if leaning away toward Ned’s hip.

Boyd chuckled and ran his thumb over the tattoo. It was rather lovely, a fascinating blend between a recreation of the patch with its defined stripes and something more artistic and easier on the eyes. From afar each stripe was clear but with Boyd’s closer vantage point he could see that they blended smoothly together.

“I’m going to fart on you,” Ned mumbled and Boyd threw himself off and away, slapping the tattoo as he climbed out of bed. Turning his head, Ned smirked at Boyd.

“Disgusting,” Boyd sneered, trying to be more annoyed than amused. “See if I make you breakfast, now.”

Ned groaned. “I’d beg you not to.”

“You have a lot of black pudding to make up for,” Boyd teased, ducking out of the bedroom as Ned flung a pillow at him.

Stretching, Boyd padded to the kitchen and dug around in the refrigerator. He winced when his palm twinged and he looked down at it with a frown, letting the refrigerator door  _ thump _ shut. His skin was red, as if he had struck something hard and not the flab and muscle of Ned’s arse. One spot was darker red than the rest and Boyd lifted it to his eyes, squinting.

Something was sticking out of his skin.

Digging around in his bags, he found a pair of tweezers in his first aid kit and gently gripped whatever was in his skin. He eased it out, gritting his teeth as the small wound burned and then subsided. Moving closer to the light he inspected the thing clasped in the tweezers, the thing that he had pulled out of his skin.

It was a splinter.

Boyd peeked back at his hand. The small wound where he had pulled the splinter out was flushed dark pink now but didn’t appear to be ready to bleed—it had just nicked the top layers of his dermis, then. But the red mark on his hand was slowly coming into shape as blood rushed to the surface. It was already beginning to fade at the edges but Boyd could clearly see the shape of it.

A pine tree, its trunk swayed as if leaning away from something.

* * *

Duck looked up as the door to the ranger station opened and Pod poked their head in. Seeing him, they flashed a smile and entered.

“Ranger Duck,” they greeted cheerfully and as he stood, Duck realized that their contacts were of a more normal shade of blue this time. They were clearly fake, the blue a little too extreme to be natural, but it was still easier to look them in the eye than when they were blood red or any other strange color. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Juno looked up. “Probably not,” she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “He was probably just texting his imaginary boyfriend.”

He was glad to see that Pod was polite enough to cover their mouth with a hand to hide their smile. “I see,” they said. “I was just wondering if you had the pamphlets we talked about? About flowers in the national forest?”

“I found a few,” Duck agreed and picked up the packet he had prepared for them. “There were a few on the national park website, too.”

Pod wrinkled their nose. “I did find a few things,” they agreed. “But it was kind of confusing.”

“Of course,” Duck agreed. “Nothing can be simple, right?”

“It’s simple until you look for something specific,” Pod said with a crooked grin. “Thank you for looking into this for me.”

Juno leaned forward. “How are you feeling, Pod? Clearly much better if you’re walking around.”

“My headache has finally gone away,” they said dryly. “And my head is a little tender, it’s still bruised, but everything’s a-okay I suppose.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Juno told them earnestly.

Pod smiled. “Now I’m back to my usual mischief. Hollis and I are planning a hike and we wanted to know what kind of flowers we’d expect to see. I was also thinking of doing a few more landscape paintings of the area of the changing seasons so I’m glad you had these pamphlets.” They waved them in the air.

“Would it be like your tattoo?” Juno wondered, nodding at the greyscale sleeve on Pod’s arm.

Looking down at that particular tattoo, Pod smiled fondly. “Maybe not,” they murmured. “But I was thinking of four panels of a landscape with the mountains in the background. I’m not sure, though—which is why Hollis and I were going hiking.”

“There’s a lot to do in the area,” Duck agreed. “Just let us know if you need any information, but I’m sure that Hollis’ knows all that.”

_ As well as the ways to avoid the rangers, _ Duck thought a little sourly but didn’t say out loud.

Pod winked as if they heard it anyway. “We’re not looking for any trouble, Ranger Duck,” they said smoothly, their eyelashes fluttering and their eyes innocently wide. “Just a bit of hiking.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Juno laughed. “Hiking with the leader of the Hornets.  _ Just _ hiking. The two of you, alone…”

Lifting a hand to their chest as if scandalized, Pod said, “Our relationship isn’t like  _ that, _ Ranger.” Their too-blue eyes sparkled with mirth. Juno and Pod laughed and Duck could only manage a weak chuckle. “Just hiking—I swear!”

They both laughed again.

Juno asked Pod about business, about their tattoos. She asked about Paint and Sip nights, if Pod would have another sometime soon.

Soon they ran out of things to talk about and thanking the both of them again, Pod left.

Duck watched them leave and wondered why he felt so uncomfortable.

* * *

Leaning back, Tamo set their gun down and rolled their neck. “How are you feeling?” they asked their client.

“I forgot how much that shit hurts,” she complained. “Can we take a break?”

Tamo nodded even though she wasn’t looking. “Just about done with the outline,” they said. “Two more minutes and then we can take a bit of a break?”

Their client huffed. “If you must. Maybe you shouldn’t have made like you were going to stop.”

Saying nothing, Tamo picked up their gun again, shook out the tension in their arms, and set about finishing the last of the black ink lines. Tamo wiped down the area, inspected their work, and nodded.

“Ugh,” their customer groaned. “Thank  _ fuck _ . I need to stretch.”

“Were you uncomfortable?” Tamo asked, concerned.

The look their customer gave them was disgusted. “Of course I was fucking uncomfortable—I was getting a  _ tattoo! _ And you made me sit like that for an hour.”

Tamo frowned, getting the shape of her complaint at last. Complaints for the sake of complaints. How wonderful. “There are drinks in the other room,” they told their customer. “Water and soda.”

“Vodka?” she asked hopefully. “Because I could fucking use a drink right now.”

“No alcohol,” Tamo told her firmly. “Alcohol is a blood thinner and will make my work harder. This was in the packet of paperwork I gave you when you paid your deposit—no drinking alcohol before, during, or after my work. If I find that you have been drinking, I will stop and you may find someone else to finish your tattoo.”  

The woman groaned, rolled her eyes, and walked out of the small booth. “Fucking hell,” she grumbled.

Strangely bold in a way that it typically wasn’t, the Shady Lady parted from their skin, lifting a tendril with a tiny cat-shaped head to look at Tamo after the woman had left. They lifted a hand that trembled from the tattoo gun toward it and grimaced.

Peeling off their gloves, they shook out their arms and then stroked the inky back of the Shady Lady. “It’s okay,” they whispered. “I’m okay.”

The Shady Lady’s mouth parted in a silent meow and then slipped back into the surface of their skin. They took a long drink from the soda that Jake had brought them earlier in the day and smiled when they remembered that he had also brought a milkshake for them. Something to look forward to after this customer from hell. Speaking of…

With a final sip, they capped the soda, washed their hands, and pulled on another set of gloves. They set out a dozen little plastic cups and began pouring out the inks that they and the customer had agreed on.

Then they pulled out their largest bottle of Ghost Ink and added some to each pigment cup. Despite looking like black tar, the Ghost Ink mixed completely with each shade and aside from thinning it out, there was no way to tell that the color had changed.

That anything had changed.

Consulting the colored rendering of the tattoo that the customer had agreed on, they were just about to fill the very last vial when they heard their customer coming back. Quickly they switched the large bottle of Ghost Ink for a smaller vial whose label matched the color of the ink they had poured.

Their customer walked back in. “I don’t like those colors anymore,” she decided, watching Tamo pour out the ink with a curled lip.

“It was the colors we agreed on,” Tamo pointed out, gesturing to the rendered picture of the tattoo—the “clean” version, without their notes scribbled over it—taped to the wall. “If you change your design now, I’m making you sign a disclaimer and pay for the ink I already portioned out.”

She sneered. “The customer is always right.”

“You signed up for this,” Tamo pointed out levelly. “This is by  _ your _ request. If you choose to change the colors, I cannot guarantee the same quality tattoo—and that is something I do not abide with. You may take these colors as agreed or leave.” 

After their lengthy consultations with this client they knew that the draw of the cryptid series was too much. She was the kind of person that wanted to seem popular but was shallow, always shallow, and plain. 

Riddled with insecurities. 

A walking ball of nerves. 

By arguing like this she wanted to feel like she had the upper hand. She grumbled. She whined. 

Tamo got their way. 

The girl climbed back into place and thrust her arm out for Tamo, looking dramatically away. “Well?” she demanded as they reached in their supply cabinet for new sets of needles in their sterile sealed wrappers. “Get on with it.”

Ignoring her, Tamo made sure to do their work properly, taking the time to inspect the set of their needle, the feel of the gun in their hands again, the location of the thick cord attached to the gun. They fetched more cleaning solution, used a sterile tongue depressor to smear out Vaseline on a nearby napkin, and checked that everything was ready before consulting their notes. 

Beneath their hands, their client twitched and whined and complained about how much their tattoo hurt. She said all kinds of nonsense to make herself feel better—her  _ last _ tattoo didn’t hurt because her artist was cool enough to let her drink and smoke while he worked,  _ and _ came to her house instead of making her trek to the left ass cheek of nowhere in West Virginia of all places. 

As she continued to speak, they ignored her. They had told the truth the other day, when Jake was visiting. Guilt was a silly human emotion, utterly useless in its existence. 

If they  _ did _ let themselves feel guilty about anything, it wouldn’t be for the Ghost Ink on this woman.

Unseen by the woman who continued to complain, they smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come and yell at me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). If that's not your thing, I can also be found on tumblr at [ClassyWastelandBread](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/) but I am almost never there so expect a delay. 
> 
> ~DC


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone but the Shady Lady has relationship problems. 
> 
> A bit of divine intervention, if that is how you choose to perceive it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the wonderful [FaiaHae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaHae/works). 
> 
> I also had the wonderful opportunity to hear their reactions as they read through it. It was strange since I was playing a video game and trying to coordinate with my team at the same time, but I just want you to know, if you are reading this note Fai, that I always treasure your tears.

Hollis watched Pod draw, contorted into a position that looked like it should be much more uncomfortable than they claimed. Their clothes were already wet from the moss, which had soaked up the rain like a sponge despite everything else being relatively dry.

Shaking their head, they returned to planting. Pod had bought them a bunch of local plants (or so they claimed) in little cardboard tubes and had carried them in their bag this entire way to surprise Hollis when they arrived.

They weren’t sure if they would have accepted them before they started hiking, so perhaps it was a clever thing for Pod to do.

Pod explained that the little dots on the sides of the tubes were in reference to the color of the flowers and Hollis tried to spread them out throughout the clearing to keep them from appearing patchy. It displaced a lot of grass, and Hollis tried to pull them up in clumps to be planted elsewhere.

“You had another cryptid tattoo,” Hollis said conversationally, grunting as they tugged at a particularly stubborn clump. “Was it a sleeve?”

“I almost miss the back pieces,” Pod murmured, sounding wistful. “The limbs are just so  _ twitchy _ . But yes, she wanted a sleeve from shoulder to wrist and insisted on it being done in one sitting.”

They both laughed at that.

“What was the damage?” Hollis asked.

Pod’s smile was cold. They were without contacts today and something in their two-colored eyes made Hollis shiver despite the warmth of the sun on their skin. “Almost nine hours. Most of it was for the color. Near the end she kept calling for breaks. At least she wasn’t much of a bleeder.”

Hollis shuddered. It still took some getting used to, to hear Pod so casually discuss bleeding. They weren’t strangers to blood or injury—they had a number of tattoos (both from Pod and other artists) and a number of scars from surgeries and injury from their adventures with the Hornets. They had seen broken bones and road rash and all sorts of other grotesque things but somehow hearing Pod talk about how much their customers bled was too much.

Perhaps it was just the  _ way _ they spoke of it. With a kind of fascinated indifference, as if it were an interesting thing of note but also something that was an inconvenience.

To be fair, in some ways it was. If a customer bled too much—outside of conditions such as hemophilia or other clotting conditions—it meant that they had to tread very carefully. Clear liquid oozed from skin broken by their tattoo gun—plasma , Pod had told them once—as well as the blood meant that they had to wipe their area clean often. Even with the petroleum jelly it could cause a rash and irritate the skin.

Not to mention it made it harder for Pod to see the purplish lines of their stencil and more fluid on the skin—no matter what it was from—meant that the stencil was at risk of washing off far sooner than Pod wanted.

Then there were the infections—hideous things that Hollis eventually had to beg Pod to not mention, especially when they were eating. It was a fact of life for Pod and so it didn’t bother them at all to talk about swollen skin, of pustules and raw edges lined in red and violent purple—

— _ nope _ , think of something else.

_ Look at the flowers _ .

Pod was looking at them, had probably said something while Hollis was distracted. Then they smiled, the strange look in their odd eyes softening. “I’m sorry,” they said. “I forgot that you don’t like it when I talk about that.”

Rolling their eyes, Hollis shoved the trowel under the mat of grass and grinned when they felt the last stubborn chunk of roots give way. With a triumphant grunt, they flipped the grass over and eyed the dark dirt clinging to the roots and the surprisingly deep hole it left behind.

“It’s not that,” they lied and Pod snorted. “I was thinking of something else.”

“Oh?” Pod asked. For a moment they were quiet. In the distance they could hear birds and the whistle of the wind through the trees. Some of them creaked and groaned; somewhere a branch snapped and clattered as it fell to the ground.

Hollis kept their eyes on their trowel as they cleared as much dirt from the underside of the grass mat back into the hole they had formed. Satisfied by what they could salvage, they flung the mat to the side. They shuffled backwards and began cutting a new square of grass.

“Isn’t it weird that there’s grass here?”

“Maybe,” Pod agreed. “Maybe not. Nature seems to have its own way of doing things. If you don’t want to talk about your boyfriend, then you just had to say so.”

Hollis looked up and stuck their tongue out at Pod. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“If you’re denying it, I’m far more inclined to believe it’s true,” Pod replied, their eyes glittering with amusement. They nudged their glasses further up their nose.

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Hollis said exasperatedly.

Pod smiled and put their pencil down. They watched Hollis expectantly.

Flipping them off, Hollis returned to their gardening.

“You know,” Pod said slowly. “Sometimes the biggest person that stands in the way of your happiness is yourself.”

Hollis scowled at them. “What are you, a fortune cookie?” they demanded even as they began to laugh.

“From one thing, know ten thousand things,” Pod said gravely, bowing their head and lifting one hand like a monk holding their prayer beads. “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

Hollis squinted at them. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“The last is from  _ The Art of War _ .” They frowned when Hollis shook their head. “Sun Tzu?” Pod made a disgusted noise but their smile took away any sting Hollis might have felt from it. “Famous Chinese strategist that wrote a novel of sorts called  _ The Art of War _ . Many famous generals and politicians have also cited his work as inspirational. It’s one of those pieces that is easily quoted and much more easily misquoted.”

“Ah. I guess that kind of sounds familiar.”

Pod stuck their tongue out at Hollis. Looking away, Hollis fought with the stubborn clump of grass. “You don’t have to talk to me,” Pod said quietly. “But I’m only asking because I’m concerned.” Surprised, Hollis looked up at them. Their eyes had softened to something gentler. Seeing Hollis looking at them, they smiled. “You never have to talk to me, but I will always listen.”

Looking away, Hollis dug their trowel into the ground again. “I was thinking. About what you said last week.” Pod made a curious sound. “About…Jake.” They fell silent again. “I think it’s too late.”

“It’s never too late,” Pod replied.

Hollis looked away. “Regardless, I’m not sure I’m ready to confront... _this_...at all. For this kind of conversation with him.”

“It’s never been my intention to force you to it.”

They lapsed into silence again. Pod returned to drawing, their pencil scratching softly against whatever weird art paper they were using.

“I’m not sure that Jake wants to talk to me ever again,” Hollis said at last.

Pod smiled. “You’ll never know if you don’t ask.”

* * *

“You must promise me something,” Pod said, stopping abruptly at the edge of the trees.

Concerned, Hollis stopped as well and turned to Pod. “What?”

“You must promise me something,” Pod repeated. Before Hollis could explain that they weren’t asking them to repeat themselves Pod continued, “It’s very important, Hollis. I need you to  _ promise _ .” Pod’s expression was unnervingly intense.

Hollis felt their stomach churn and they stepped closer to Pod. “What is it?” they asked quietly. “What’s wrong, Tamo?” the name felt strange to use—they so rarely used it, but it was something known in the back of their mind.

They jumped when Pod’s arm snapped out and grabbed the dirt-streaked front of their loose hoodie. “Promise me,” they said and paused, eyes searching Hollis’s face.

Hollis’s veins felt like they were filled with ice. Dread made them swallow hard and lean closer.

“Promise me that when you get your boyfriend back you won’t fuck in my shop.”

For a long moment Hollis just stared at Pod, whose intense stare cracked. They turned away and burst into laughter while Hollis still struggled to form a response.

“I fucking hate you.”

“I have standards—cleaning standards—in my shop,” Pod managed to say around their laughter. Seeing the look on Hollis’s face they turned and started running, still laughing.

Shaking their head, Hollis yelled, “I’m making you buy lunch!”

“You’re not making me do shit!”

Grumbling to themselves, they walked after Pod. Despite their joking and the emotional whiplash they had just put Hollis through, they were glad that they were feeling better. That they were feeling well enough to joke like that.

They could almost forget what they had been joking about.

* * *

Night fell. 

The wind and moon and stone beckoned. 

The Shady Lady moved along the trees of the forest, barely visible in the light of the rising moon. It knew that it didn’t need to heed the call, but for the sake of The One Called Tamo it did. 

As it traveled, it could feel the energy in the air. The One Called Tamo claimed to not feel it, so perhaps it was too sensitive for them to pick up; perhaps they simply couldn’t feel it. Possible, more likely in fact, since it wasn’t meant for them. 

The Shady Lady paused, lingering in the shadow of a tree. It did not need rest but its time with The One Called Tamo had emphasized the need for caution. There are things in the woods that would hurt its comparatively fragile companion, so it became cautious as well. 

It could hear the sounds of animals in the night. The movement of air that was a hunting owl, the scurry of its unfortunate prey. Elsewhere some hooved animal walked. 

There were no sounds of two-leg things. 

There was no sound of The Wooden One. 

It hurried along. The moon was rising and it wanted to be in place before It happened. Finding the clearing was easy now that the moon was casting its silver light on the stone archway to Elsewhere. The Shady Lady climbed up a tree and hid in its boughs where it would not be seen.

So many times it had come here to wait and watch. It was never seen when They made it through the archway. It didn’t seem to be able to sense the Shady Lady either, just as the Shady Lady couldn’t sense it. 

For now the Shady Lady waited as energy grew in the clearing and darkened the lights in its ink-like body. The grass in the clearing seemed to glow for just a moment, infused with the light from the moon and the energy from the archway. It could feel the energy build and build, filling the air with the thrum of magic like the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. 

Then it stopped. 

The gust of wind would have blown the Shady Lady away if it had not gripped the branch, used to this explosion of light and wind and magic. 

The ethereal glow of the moon faded from the blades of grass. The clearing was normal again and the thrum of magic faded from the stone who had always liked to hoard such things. 

It watched; for there was a dark lump beside the stone archway. 

After a long moment the lump began to move like boiling liquid, rising taller and taller, inch by slow inch. The Shady Lady could relate; it remembered how terrifying it had been to come through the portal, to feel the air and weight of a new world. How long had it lay there in the moonlight, trying to work limbs that were no longer there, remember the shape of What-Once-Was? 

The dark form began to take shape: two pillars like legs and six on either side of its body that ended in points like wings. A head formed but two of the wings covered it before it could get a good look at it. Two of its wings extended as if to stretch and two more stretched down to cover the pillars of its legs. 

The Shady Lady knew what happened next. After stretching, it would tilt its head to the sky and scream in a voice that few could hear in a language that even fewer would understand. The creature would call out its name to the moon. 

From this name, from the voice, the Shady Lady would know if it meant a threat to The One Called Tamo. It would know if it must steer their companion and The One Called Hollis away from the forest. 

It would know if it needed to protect The One Called Tamo from this creature. If it needed to fight against its own kind for the sake of its companion, the two-leg creature it had become fond of.

In the clearing, the creature screamed.  **Seraph** . 

Then it stretched out two of its wing-shapes and leaped into the air as if to fly away. It immediately fell back to the ground where it exploded into a thousand crystalline shapes. 

The Shady Lady watched it, a little sympathetic for its struggles. Forming a shape was one thing, but being able to move around was another. The air was different here, the feel of the magic and gravity felt stranger. 

In some ways, the Shady Lady still hadn’t quite gotten used to it but moving around as it did suited its purpose well enough. And it seemed to amuse The One Called Tamo. 

Lights flashed along the Seraph’s body as it formed its shape again, much quicker than it had before. The Shady Lady was almost impressed. It threw its head—again covered by the top two wings—to the sky and screamed in a voice that few heard. 

Flames shone in its dark body, moving in a gradient from deep blue in its covered feet through red and orange and gold to blinding white in the tips of its wings. Ripples of heat shove above its covered head and the Shady Lady knew that it was only a matter of time before it breathed fire again. 

But first it would need food. It would need to gather strength. The Seraph turned and on its two legs, stumbled into the trees. 

Turning, the Shady Lady moved too. It must protect The Ones Called Tamo and Hollis. But it could wait until morning—it would take some time for the Seraph to be enough of a danger that the two-legs couldn’t handle. 

It paused, considering. The One Called Tamo said that it would be leftovers, tonight. 

Not that the Shady Lady was particularly  _ hungry _ —The One Called Tamo fed it very well and it had eaten well earlier that day but...well, the House With The Lights was nearby. If it was careful to not let The Wooden One see it, it could probably get some not-leftover food. 

The One Called Tamo would also feed it, of course. They always left out a bowl of food for them. But this way, it could get  _ two _ meals tonight. 

Turning toward the House With The Lights, it raced away. 

* * *

Stern looked up in surprise when someone knocked on his door. Then he groaned as he felt the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders protest. Getting to his feet he stretched his arms over his head, making a pleased noise when his shoulders and neck cracked, before answering the door. 

As he had half-expected, it was Barclay. (Or was it, perhaps, wishful thinking?) 

“Ah, hello,” he said, fighting the inexplicable urge to straighten his clothes as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. He cleared his throat. “Can I help you?” 

Barclay fidgeted. He always seemed to be fidgeting, and Stern wondered why he might be so uncomfortable. It made Stern uncomfortable. What had he done?  _ Was _ it something he had done? 

It made him wonder. Barclay had been the one to tell him...what was it?  _ Nobody feels innocent when the police _ — _ or a suit _ — _ are around _ . Was Barclay still nervous about him? 

Stern looked down at his rumpled clothes. He was out of his suit at least, was due to visit the laundromat in the Lodge again. Embarrassingly he was in his work slacks, rumpled from sitting cross-legged on the bed, and at some point he had tossed aside his starched button-down shirt, revealing his embarrassing undershirt. 

“Bigfoot is real and he tried to eat my ass”, it proclaimed in bold black letters. 

Admittedly it had been one of the gag gifts from the last company Non-Demon-inational Holiday Party and admittedly it was his own fault for being caught in such an embarrassing shirt because he found it hilarious. 

However he  _ was _ embarrassed that the Unexplained Phenomena taskforce, a department funded by the FBI and filled with some truly brilliant people, couldn’t come up with a more clever name for their party than “Non-Demon-inational Holiday Party”. 

He cleared his throat as Barclay fell still, the meaning of his shirt clearly sinking in. Perhaps the shirt was also a little small, not quite his size when it was gifted and having shrunk a little in the wash, so that it pulled tightly across his chest and the seams where shoulder met sleeve were not in their proper place. 

Perhaps that was why Barclay was staring. 

Embarrassed that he was caught so dressed-down, he cleared his throat again and Barclay looked up at him, his eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. His face was bright red. 

“Sorry,” Barclay hurried to say. His eyes flicked down to Stern’s shirt and then back up to his face. “Um, sorry to bother you. Just...I didn’t see you at dinner and I saw your car out back so...I wanted to make sure that you were okay. You know. You had fed.  _ Eaten _ . Eaten.”

Stern blinked at Barclay. “Oh,” he said and looked at his wrist. Apparently he had also taken off his watch at some point. 

“It’s 8:30,” Barclay said helpfully. “Well, probably closer to 9 by now. I cleaned up at 8:30 and realized that I hadn’t seen you. So I came up here. To ask.” His eyes flicked down to Stern’s shirt and then back up at his face. “Are you hungry?”

As if on cue Stern’s stomach growled. It was a good thing because he had no idea what to say. He cleared his throat. “I suppose that answers that.” 

“Come downstairs to the kitchen,” he said. “If you manage to sneak past Mama I’ll make you something to eat real fast.” 

Sighing, Stern nodded. “A little bit of sneaking,” he said dryly. “From someone with eyes in the back of her head.” 

Barclay laughed nervously. “I believe in you,” he said gravely and with a mocking two-fingered salute, left. 

Ducking back in the room, Stern changed into clothes more suited for being seen in public (an old blue tee from the very bottom of his bags of a white stylized frog wearing green headphones) and a clean pair of jeans. He looked at his hair in the mirror as he threaded his belt through the loops and ducked out of his room, carefully locking it behind him. 

He saw no sign of Mama as he descended the stairs toward the lobby, and she wasn’t behind the desk or in any of the usual areas he’d expect to see her. But he  _ did _ see Dani and Jake playing chess together, and drifted over. 

“Look who it is,” Dani said with a serene smile. Jake made a noncommittal sound, his face twisted in an almost comical look of concentration as he considered the chessboard. “We missed you at dinner.” 

Stern rubbed the back of his neck before he could stop himself. “I got distracted by work.” 

“Ah,” Dani said knowingly. Jake moved his pawn. With only a brief glance at the board, Dani moved her rook; Jake swore. “It happens.” 

“A shame,” Stern said, hoping he didn’t sound like he was hiding something. He’d hate to get Barclay in trouble. “Have you seen...um…” he cleared his throat. “Mama? Around?”

Jake looked up, squinted at Stern’s shirt, and then looked at Stern. He blinked owlishly. “Oh, she just left. Did you need something?” 

“Where?” Stern blurted, startled. “When?”

Dani and Jake both shrugged. “She left about an hour ago. Did you need something?” Dani asked. 

He wondered if Barclay knew or if he had just been messing with him. “No, it’s fine,” he assured them both. “Just...curious.” 

Jake had returned to staring at the chessboard. Dani smiled at Stern. “Okay, but if you need anything, we’ll be here a while longer.” Jake made a triumphant sound as he took his turn; Dani glanced briefly at the board and moved another piece, much to Jake’s vocal dismay. 

Nodding, Stern slipped off toward the dining area. “You knew,” he accused Barclay when he poked his head out of the window to the kitchen.

“Guilty,” Barclay replied with a grin. “But it bought me some time to make you dinner. Why don’t you come in the kitchen while I finish it up?”

Unsure why his stomach was twisting in knots, Stern nodded and eased the swinging doors open just in case he hit Barclay. Seeing that he was on the other side of the kitchen, Stern walked in more confidently, letting the door swing shut behind him. 

“Can I help with anything?” he asked. “Dishes?” 

Barclay shot him a nervous smile. “No, you can keep me company, though?” he nodded at the prep table behind him. “If you’d like some wine, there’s a bottle over there.”

“Only if you’ll join me,” Stern said a little boldly. “I’m sure you need a drink after today.” 

Surprised, Barclay turned and looked at him. He had a small army of bowls lined up in front of him, each filled with different ingredients, seemingly in preparation for Stern’s dinner. “What?”

Stern cleared his throat. “I  _ said _ , won’t you join me for wine?” 

For a long moment Barclay blinked at him. Inexplicably nervous, Stern turned to the bottle and began twisting the opener into the cork. “I mean,” he said, eyes down on the bottle and not on Barclay’s face. “You’re making me dinner after hours, right? I don’t see why you’d let me drink this all by myself.” 

The cork popped and Stern took a curious whiff. He immediately laughed at himself. It smelled sweet with only a small hint of that sour note that all wines seemed to have. Finding a glass next to the bottle, he poured the wine and turned around to face Barclay. 

Was it possible to get drunk off of wine fumes alone? No, that was ridiculous. 

Perhaps it was simply the exhaustion—Stern hadn’t left his room since breakfast, after all. He took a deep breath and lifted the glass. “Well?” he asked. “Or will I drink this alone?” 

* * *

One glass of wine shared, passed back and forth while Barclay cooked, turned into two, turned into three. 

One bottle turned into two and soon Stern found himself outside, eating dinner with Barclay on the porch. They had to switch glasses when Stern nearly dropped his, and now both of them had stemless plastic cups. 

Well, they had plastic  _ drink  _ cups from the kitchen area but that was the same thing. They dragged a nearby table over to the porch swing and sat with their legs from knee to hip touching, their elbows bumping.

“I’m sorry,” Stern said as he ate. “This is terribly unprofessional.” The wine was hitting him and he was feeling warm and that particular kind of loose feeling that happened when you drank half a bottle of wine on an empty stomach.

Barclay smiled shyly. “You don’t need to be professional,” he said hesitantly. “This is dinner…right?”

Surprised, Stern looked at Barclay. Perhaps it was just the wine but…

He  _ really _ looked at Barclay, feeling the cogs of his mind grinding as he struggled to process the thought, that ridiculous, silly thought…

“Is this a date?” Stern blurted.

Once the words were said, everything seemed to fall into place. The Saturday night dinner— _ during everyone else’s date night _ . That could mean anything of course; perhaps Barclay had only wanted the company, perhaps that had been the entire truth but…

He thought about sitting next to Barclay when they came back, talking about food and liquor and sitting on the couch playing Jenga with everyone else. He thought of how warm Barclay had felt next to him, how he had leaned in ever so slightly when Stern had thrown an arm around his shoulders.

How mortified Barclay had been when they woke up in bed together.

How he had also seemed strangely disappointed.

Now Barclay had a similar look, his eyes as wide as saucers; the pasta curled around his fork fell into his lap with a wet  _ splat _ but he didn’t react. He looked terrified and the final piece clicked in place.

“You’ve been asking me out this entire time,” Stern realized.

Barclay looked away and put his fork down. He grabbed at the pasta in his lap, dumped it on the edge of his plate, and scrubbed at his jeans with a napkin. Beneath them the swing rocked.

For a while, neither of them spoke; then Barclay stood as if to leave, grabbing his dishes. In the golden glow of the porch lights, his face was shadowed, his mouth pressed in a thin line.

“I wish you’d told me sooner,” Stern said softly and Barclay dropped his plate.

A window opened and Jake poked his head out. “Hey, I heard a crash,” he said. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Stern told him. “I accidentally knocked over Barclay’s plate.”

For a while Jake regarded them both; Stern could hear Barclay swallow audibly before nodding once. “Okay,” Jake said at last. “I’ll grab you two a broom.” His head disappeared. A moment later the door opened and Jake helped Barclay sweep up the shards of his plate and the food that had spilled into a dustpan. With a final look at them, Jake took the trash away and didn’t return.

“I’m surprised you haven’t run off yet,” Stern observed and considered what he would do if Barclay did. He just hoped that Barclay would let him keep the rest of the wine—he was sure he’d need it. Or maybe not; he still had those bottles in his room.

Barclay cleared his throat. “This wasn’t…how I expected this to go.”

“What  _ did _ you expect, then?”

Still standing, Barclay picked nervously at his jeans. “I don’t know. A straight answer.”

“I can’t give you a straight answer. I’m gay.” Barclay glared at him and Stern laughed. It was the first time he had seen such a look on Barclay; in the darkness of the back porch and the unreliable lighting of the porch light behind Barclay, he looked like some kind of ghoul.

He kept laughing and laughing.

It was the alcohol, or at least part of it. He laughed until his stomach cramped. Barclay continued to glower at him.

“I’m not laughing  _ at _ you,” he managed to tell Barclay. “At least, I don’t think I am. I’m just laughing that I am such an idiot.”

Barclay had always seemed shy around him. He had always fidgeted when he spoke to Stern. Had this been why? A crush?

Was there an adult form of a crush? It seemed too elementary and Stern was pretty sure that Barclay didn’t  _ lust _ after him. Perhaps a bit but not entirely.

Suddenly unsure, his laughter trailed off. He gestured to the bench. “Sit,” he said. “Please. I guess…we should talk about this.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” Barclay said with surprising candor as he eased himself into the porch swing. He sat at the very edge of the seat as if ready to bolt.

“Why?” Stern wanted to know. “Did you not want me to know?” he frowned, a terrible thought occurring to him. It filled his veins with ice and the heady buzz of alcohol faded as he sat up straighter. “Was I incorrect?”

Barclay looked away. “Not entirely,” he mumbled, scrubbing both hands over his face. “This wasn’t what I had meant to happen.”

“Then…what was?”

For a long moment Barclay said nothing, didn’t even look up from where his face was buried in his hands. “I don’t know,” he said. Slowly he dragged his hands down his face. It wasn’t an attractive look on anyone but Stern found himself amused nonetheless. “I don’t think I was hoping for anything. I don’t…” he sighed.

“Well, this is awkward,” Stern said after a long moment. Somewhere in the darkness of the woods around the Lodge, an animal cried. He picked up the wine bottle and wiggled it; it was still mostly full. “Wine?”

Barclay made a choked noise. “ _ Please _ .”

Stern poured wine into both of their cheap plastic cups and set the now-empty bottle aside. He lifted his glass in a mocking toast but realized that he had no idea what to say.

“Yeah,” Barclay agreed tiredly and tapped the edge of his glass against Stern’s. They both drank deeply.

* * *

There was a hand around Stern’s waist.

Taking a deep breath, Stern opened his eyes and jumped when he saw the painting from that wretched Paint and Sip night. For a moment he ignored the person behind him and looked at it. He could have sworn that the lights on the cabin behind the Bigfoot had been golden, as if a light had been on in reaction to the howl of the Bigfoot.

Perhaps he was just misremembering things. All of the windows on the lodge in the painting, save one, were closed. A downstairs window was open and he could see the tiny form of a black cat, back arched and hanging in midair as it jumped in.

He was distracted as the arm around his waist tightened and someone buried their face in the back of his neck. For a moment Stern debated waking the other person up. At this point he was just resigned to his strange fate of waking up to people in his bed that shouldn’t be there. The decision was made for him when his bed partner woke up.

Once again, Barclay sat up and  _ yelled _ . This time, at least, Stern didn’t fall out of the bed, though it was a near thing.

Barclay borrowed another set of clothes and fled. As Stern closed the door, he looked at the painting again; he swore and rubbed his tired eyes.

He needed to take a quick shower, get dressed, and head downstairs. Despite Mama’s protests otherwise, he would jump in the kitchen and start breakfast again while Barclay figures out what to do about his room. He needed to get the feeling of Barclay’s hot breath on the back of his neck, the feeling of his arm around Stern’s waist, out of his mind.

_ Lord _ , but he needed coffee because pictures didn’t move. Still he squinted at the painting and wondered why he had thought there had been a cat in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come and yell at me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). If that's not your thing, I can also be found on tumblr at [ClassyWastelandBread](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/) but I am almost never there so expect a delay. 
> 
> ~DC


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ach, I'm sorry it took so long. I had a really two weeks. Between work and personal business, it took me longer than I had intended to work on this chapter.

“Well,” Indrid said slowly, sounding far too amused to actually be surprised. Duck barely resisted the urge to strangle him if only because he didn’t want any domestic abuse charges against him.

Or murder charges.

That might be a little awkward.

“What a surprise,” Indrid continued in his most ‘I’m so cool that butter won’t melt’ voice. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Aubrey. Who is this?”

Fearlessly, which seemed to be her standard, Dani held out a hand for Indrid to shake. It wasn’t clear if she knew exactly who he was, but by the slight tilt of her head Duck was certain that she could tell that he was a Sylph, too.

“I’m Dani,” she said.

Indrid’s smile widened. “A pleasure to meet you, Dani. You may call me Indrid.” He gestured to the crowded restaurant. “I know that you must be on a date, but why don’t you join us? I’m sure it’s easier to find a 4-person table than to find two 2-person ones.”

As Duck and Aubrey stared awkwardly at each other, their eyes flicking to their respective dates, Dani said, “I have no objections. Aubrey and I are going to a movie afterward, so it’s no trouble if we’re joined for dinner. Right, Aubrey?”

The hostess seemed relieved when Indrid updated their reservations and was able to seat them immediately. Aubrey let Indrid and Dani go first and leaned close to Duck. “ _ You’re dating the Mothman?! _ ”

“I  _ was _ ,” he hissed back.

Ahead of them, Indrid laughed.

* * *

Tamo was frowning down at the etch-a-sketch in their hands when Hollis walked into their shop. Leaning over the desk, Hollis peeked at the toy and frowned. It looked like the ravings of a mind gone mad, the same word repeated over and over in varying sizes: SERAPH.

“Seraph?” they echoed and Tamo looked up.

Tamo shrugged, vigorously shaking the toy to erase it before tucking it back into their bag. “Are you ready?”

By now Hollis knew better than to ask and instead led the way to their car. The drive to the hiking trails was spent in silence as Tamo stared thoughtfully out the window.

Hollis peeked at them out of the corner of their eyes. Tamo’s bruises were nearly gone, the marks nearly invisible against their lavender hair and the roots of their natural hair color beginning to peek through.

“I need to dye my hair again,” Tamo said distractedly and ran a hand through their undercut. “And get it cut.”

“I don’t know,” Hollis murmured. “Maybe you should grow it out.”

Tamo chuckled. “Perhaps.”

The local radio station hissed as they drove through a patch of trees before talking about another spring storm heading for Kepler, forecasting another three days of rain when it hit later that night.

“It’s a good thing we’re not camping,” Hollis joked. They pulled in to the campgrounds and parked near the trailhead. Tamo hummed distractedly.

* * *

When the rain fell, it made a sound like a roar of some terrible beast and the noises of the restaurant paused for a brief moment as everyone turned to the enormous windows. The awnings were turned into miniature waterfalls, the outdoor lights reflecting in the water so that it looked like molten gold and silver. The very air hummed as the rain drummed down on the roof of the restaurant, on the cars, on the sidewalk outside.

“They  _ were _ predicting another storm tonight,” Indrid said mildly. “It seems to have come rather early. I fear it will be difficult to drive for some time.” Duck glared at him.

“If it keeps raining this hard, most certainly,” Dani murmured. “I suppose we should have checked the weather before we left the lodge.”

Indrid took a delicate bite of his food. “Did you drive?”

“Fortunately, we did,” Dani agreed while Aubrey continued to glare at Duck. “Aubrey, stop it. It’s none of your business.”

Flushing, Aubrey sat back and looked away. “It’s just that…I thought we were friends. I thought you would have told me.”

“It’s none of your business,” Dani repeated. “And right now you’re only making him believe it was right to not tell anyone.”

Indrid reached out and put a hand on Duck’s. “It’s as much my own concern as Duck’s. I’m not used to being around people without causing trouble.”

“‘Trouble’ he calls it,” Duck grumbled, cheeks aflame.

Aubrey frowned. “Did you think we wouldn't be okay with it?”

“It’s none of your business if you’re okay with it or not,” Duck muttered, not looking at anyone. He didn’t pull his hand away from Indrid’s. “It’s not a question of  _ who _ I’m dating or my sexuality either, just…I just wanted something to myself for a while, you know? And I didn’t know how to tell everyone.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Aubrey admitted. “Although I feel like it would be an interesting conversation. I’m not sure you set off anyone’s gaydar— _ ow! _ ”

For good measure Dani punched her shoulder again. “Inappropriate.”

Duck looked away. “That’s just it. I don’t and I _ know _ I don’t. And I don’t like the idea of having to justify myself and my own sexuality just because I don’t fit what someone expects of me, whether they think I’m gay or bi or straight, or anything else.” 

Leaning in, Indrid kissed Duck’s cheek. “There isn’t a checklist for you to fill out, despite what people seem to think,” he said quietly. “It only matters what  _ you _ think and how  _ you _ choose to see yourself.” 

Aubrey looked at Dani who was kind enough to not say anything of what transpired. She smiled at Aubrey and tangled their fingers together on the table. 

When the conversation resumed, it was on a lighter note. 

* * *

The first slap of cold wind made Hollis pause but not for very long. It was still spring and the air from the mountains tended to be cold.

When it came again, more insistent and with the smell of rain, Hollis looked up and froze. “Fuck.”

Pod paid no attention to the wind except to hunch their shoulders over their sketchbook, gripping the pages tighter as they struggled against nature at its most insistent. They didn’t seem to hear Hollis until they slapped at their extended leg.

Both of them looked up at the sky, the ominous roll of clouds in shades of slate grey and green lit with silvery arcs of lightning. The thunder that responded was almost a physical sensation and Pod gasped, dropping their sketchbook on the ground to cover their ears as the thunder roared and the mountains kept it echoing.

“Hurry,” Hollis cried as the trees began to hiss and groan beneath the force of the winds that heralded the storm.

They cast a worried look at their plants—how many of them would survive the storm?—and grabbed at Pod’s satchel. Pod scrambled over, casting aside their pencils as they dug around in one of the many pouches along the sides. They tugged out a small roll of plastic garbage bags and Hollis took one, bundling the books in the bag while Pod shoved their pencils and notebooks into another.

“We’re not going to make it back,” Pod hissed to Hollis. “It’s nearly on us!”

Hollis shook their head and continued packing. “Hurry,” they said and shouldered their bag.

“I thought it wasn’t supposed to rain until tonight,” Pod hissed even as they clipped their satchel shut and swung it on their back. Behind them, the wind roared and lightning flashed and the roar of thunder nearly flattened them.

Checking their GPS device, Hollis pointed to the faint path in the trees and took off running.

Above them, the skies continued to darken as if by some terrible plague. The trees were plunged into shadow as if it were night and then the first drops of rain began to fall.

* * *

“Holy shit,” Stern cried as he nearly tumbled out of bed.

His room had been slowly growing darker, something to be expected—or so he thought—with the coming night. But for all that it was spring and night still came early in the mountains, this darkness was almost terrifying in its speed.

And the thunder rattled his windows.

A moment later, everything was plunged into the darkness, leaving Stern’s room illuminated by the last pale green tendrils of light through the windows, the garish light of his computer screen, and by the white-hot flashes of lightning as it arced through the clouds.

He fumbled around and found his phone as a flash of lightning illuminated every corner of his room and plunged what remained into a darkness that looked as if it had been marked with ink. There was a faint golden light that came from beneath the door to the hallway and a moment after he noticed it, someone knocked.

Without thinking of his state of undress he opened the door and smiled down at Barclay who held a small electric lantern in his hands…and who wasn’t meeting his eyes.

He was looking at the Bigfoot boxers that Stern was wearing.

“One moment,” Stern said and closed the door, ignoring the low curl in his gut to know that Barclay had been eyeing him.

But it was ridiculous—he wasn’t looking at his dick, just at the obnoxious pattern on his boxers. It was coincidental at best, and Barclay could hardly be said to be  _ checking him out _ .

Shaking his head, Stern fumbled around for a pair of pants. Behind him, the door opened.

“Sorry,” Barclay said and when Stern turned around he was looking at the ceiling as if the sprinkler held the mysteries of life and the universe. “I just wanted to say that the power’s out completely. The storm is a pretty bad one and probably yanked down a power line or something. We’re all meeting downstairs for a candlelight dinner soon. Just…if you have any lanterns or candles or something, you can bring it down.”

Bouncing on his toes, Stern wiggled his jeans up and buttoned them, turning back around to face Barclay who was still carefully not looking at him. Swallowing, Stern scrubbed his hands on his jeans and stepped up close, pressing a kiss to Barclay’s cheek. “Can I help you in the kitchen?”

“Mama wouldn’t be happy about that,” Barclay said reluctantly and in the golden glow of his lantern Stern thought that he might be blushing. “And I think if you snuck in, it would only distract me.”

Stern smiled. “Then outside I shall wait.”

Flashing a shy smile at him, Barclay ducked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Stern looked at himself in the mirror before forgetting that it was so dark and grabbed his phone, nearly blinding himself with the bright glow of its flashlight setting.

Even the next roar of thunder, loud enough to rattle the decorative mirrors on the closet in his room, wasn’t enough to shake the smile from his face.

* * *

“Oh my, it’s really coming down,” Indrid said watching the glittering water roll off the awning near the front door. Next to him, Dani shivered, the cold storm wind reaching even through the doors. “Are you parked very far?”

“We didn’t think it would rain quite this badly, this early,” Dani admitted. “So we parked closer to the movie theaters and walked over. You?”

Indrid sighed wistfully. “We walked from Duck’s apartment.”

“Ah.”

They fell into companionable silence. There was a flash of brilliant white light and on its heels a roar of thunder loud enough to rattle the doors.

“I hope Dr. Harris Bonkers is doing okay,” Dani murmured. “Aubrey never said if he did well with storms. We should probably head back so that she can actually relax.”

Indrid hummed. “Be careful,” he murmured. “There may be a few downed trees. It’s a really bad storm.” He turned to Dani. “Actually, I think it would be best for the moment if you  _ didn’t _ leave, if you and Aubrey spent a moment with myself and Duck. I really must insist.”

For a long moment Dani continued to stare out the glass doors at the runoff that was lit up in neon colors from the few signs that managed to shine through the downpour outside. “How very ominous,” she said softly. Behind them, laughter swelled from a table celebrating someone’s birthday. There were oohs and aahs as a harried waitress brought out a cake lit with candles. “Is this storm truly that dangerous?”

“Wind and rain are lethal in combination,” Indrid replied. “And this one is  _ cold _ , too. With the ground so wet and the wind so strong, trees can— _ will _ —fall. Not to mention, there are other dangers out there in this storm.”

Dani hummed as Duck and Aubrey joined them. She smiled sweetly at Aubrey. “Indrid invited us over to watch a movie at Duck’s apartment.” She hooked an elbow around Aubrey’s. “I think we should—we don’t know If the theater will even be open now, and we should probably wait for the rain to die down a bit before we try to head back to the lodge.”

“Oh?” Aubrey asked, eyeing Indrid suspiciously. “I had wanted to check in on Dr. Harris Bonkers, Ph.D.”

Under her breath, obscured by the low rumbling of the rain outside Dani muttered, “I always forget the Ph.D.”

“Probably a good idea,” Duck agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “The rain might make everything worse. Not to mention it’s so dark…and the wind will make it hard to maneuver. Perhaps you  _ should _ wait until the rain dies down at least. And my place is a little closer than the movie theaters, so once it dies down it won’t be such a long walk to your car.”

Dani patted Aubrey’s hand in hers and tangled their fingers together. “I’m sure Dr. Harris Bonkers, Ph.D. is fine,” she murmured. “And really, I’d rather we all be safe than rushing off into the woods.”

Reluctantly Aubrey sighed. “That’s true,” she said a little worriedly. “Duck, you better have something warm.”

“Have you  _ met _ him?” Duck asked dryly, jerking a thumb at Indrid. “I have about twenty space heaters in my place right now. You’ll be  _ fine _ .”

* * *

When the downpour actually came, it was as sudden as if they had stepped beneath a waterfall. Hollis yelled as they tripped and fell and Tamo skidded to a stop to avoid falling over them as well. All they could hear was the roar of the wind on the trees and all they could see was green-grey darkness all around them.

Even the shade of the enormous trees, which in some areas could cast the forest into twilight even during the brightest summer day, did not protect them from the torrential downpour. The rain reached everywhere and roared its triumph.

The sky was lit up by an arc of lightning and Tamo reached down in the afterimage of its light, grabbing Hollis by their wet jacket and the pack on their back and hauling them to their knees. Beneath the rain, the path had turned into a miniature river, turning rock and mudstone slick and treacherous.

“Under the trees!” Tamo yelled as loud as they could, hoping that Hollis could hear. “Get under the trees!”

It would not provide any shelter from the rain, but it would be easier to see and breathe beneath the boughs of the great pine tree that Tamo had seen in the lightning’s silver light. Either Hollis had the same idea or they had heard Tamo because they began scrambling, sloshing through the water on the path to the edge where it gave way to forest. Tamo hauled on their jacket and bag, their hands slipping on wet fabric as they tried to keep Hollis from falling again, from being swept away.

They hoped that nobody was near the rivers and creeks—the flash flooding would be devastating in this downpour.

Hopefully they were the only two idiots to be stuck in the forest.

Above them the tree groaned, its branches pointing downward like a folded umbrella beneath the fury of the water. It was much drier than Tamo had expected, but only barely: enormous droplets of water still fell on them but now they could more clearly see the green-grey darkness that had fallen beneath the shadows of the storm clouds.

“How far away are we?” Tamo shouted to Hollis.

With shaking hands, they pulled out the GPS. Both flinched away by the greenish light cast by its display screen, blinded by even that brief hint of light. “Next checkpoint is 400 meters,” Hollis yelled back.

The world was lit by the next arc of lightning and they both fell to their knees when a few seconds later, the thunder’s roar echoed off the mountains.

“We need to get out from under the tree,” Hollis cried.

Tamo gestured at the darkness outside, as if the world had been swallowed; they were only able to see anything from the eerie green light from the screen of the GPS in Hollis’s hand. “In here or out there, we’re not much better off.”

Above them, the tree groaned as if in agreement. It swayed in the wind.

“Is Amnesty Lodge nearby?” Tamo yelled. “Or the ranger station?”

“I think so. Amnesty maybe.” Hollis pushed their wet hair out of their eyes. “We can try for that. Probably should.” They both peered over the display of the GPS. It must have been water treated to have survived for so long, but Tamo wasn’t sure how long even that would last.

They were fairly certain that even the best GPS wasn’t really meant to be used  _ underwater _ .

Hollis fiddled with it, their hands shaking with the cold. “Almost half a mile away,” they yelled, leaning close to Tamo to be heard over the downpour. They pointed in a direction just over Tamo’s right shoulder. “That way. The parking lot, if we try for a straight shot, is about the same in the opposite direction. But there’s the creek, remember? With the bridge?”

Making a face that Hollis certainly couldn’t see, Tamo nodded. It was a simple bridge made of corrugated metal painted brown to match the forest around it and the creek that it covered was only perhaps two feet deep and five feet wide. Tamo was certain that in the summer, without the meltwater from snow it was easy for children and hikers to cross without the help of the bridge.

By now, even only a handful of minutes into the downpour, the creek had no doubt consumed the bridge. A fall into the creek in summer might only result in a little splash, and an uncomfortable hike to change one’s wet pants but now it could mean death.

“The lodge, then,” Tamo said grimly. They pointed to the ink-dark trees. “Keep under the trees, we can probably keep our footing.”

They could sense Hollis’s nervous look. Hollis leaned close to growl in their ear. “And risk electrocution?”

There was a tugging of something on their leg but when they looked down, they could barely see their knees in the darkness. They could, however, see their pants move along their skin as something invisible in the dark tugged on their leg.

For a moment they were concerned. Even in the darkness where it was nearly invisible, the Shady Lady was being unusually bold to try and get Tamo’s attention. It was cautious (sometimes) so that it was trying so hard to get Tamo to look at it, to give it its etch-a-sketch, made them concerned.

But they couldn’t stop.

“You have a better idea?” Tamo asked Hollis. “We need to get out of this weather.”

Hollis didn’t answer, kneeling on the ground and digging around in their backpack. The Shady Lady wiggled up the wet hem of Tamo’s pants as they pulled out a flashlight and clicked it on.

It cast a circle of yellow light around them and somehow made the darkness beyond turn into a void of nothingness broken only by the golden reflection of light on wet branches and the liquid slashes of rain.

When Hollis sighed, Tamo could see their breath on the air, a puff of silvery missed before it was perforated by the enormous drops of water falling from the branches above. “Into the Mines of Moria,” Tamo murmured to themselves.

“Let’s go,” Hollis called reluctantly and they began walking—quickly, carefully over slick roots and clinging mud—into the darkness.

Tamo could feel the Shady Lady tighten its grip on their leg. Then it moved, moving out from beneath the leg of their soaked jeans to climb up along the outside. It disguised itself in the shadows around their satchel and then scrambled up their shoulders to curl in the dark lines of the tattoo around their neck.

The Shady Lady couldn’t speak, not in a way that could be heard by Tamo, but they thought that it was. They could feel it purring over their cold skin, like the rumble of a voice that was not audible to Tamo’s human ears.

As they walked and Tamo tried not to think of how cold it was, they thought that it was saying something, the same thing, over and over again.

Or perhaps it was just purring, as a cat purrs for comfort.

Tamo lost track of time and how far they walked as they and Hollis walked quickly from tree to tree, trying not to stay too long in the downpour. The longer the walked, the wetter the space beneath the trees became until it was nearly as bad as it was in the middle of the path.

Then the Shady Lady moved: one moment Tamo was walking, standing upright, and the next they were slamming into the rough bark of a nearby pine tree, gasping as their breath was struck out of their lungs. Hollis yelled a second later and joined them; then the Shady Lady covered them.

Beside them, they could hear Hollis move, knew that they were about to open their mouths to yell and then the darkness that was the Shady Lady covered their mouth too, cutting off their cries with a wet sound that was hardly more audible than the downpour around them.

When Tamo opened their mouth—they didn’t know what they would say, if they would comfort Hollis or ask the Shady Lady what was happening, to yell, or scold they weren’t sure—but the Shady Lady covered that too. Tamo nodded once in understanding and they felt the Shady Lady pull away.

They reached out to Hollis as one of the Shady Lady’s tendrils found the light, dropped by Hollis a few feet away, and turned it off. Having gotten used to the little orb of pale light, the darkness in its absence seemed even more terrible.

Hollis was trembling and Tamo wrapped their arms around their shoulders, stilled their struggling. “Shh,” Tamo told them, their lips brushing Hollis’s ear as they struggled to remain quiet. Hollis may have made a sound—they could feel it against their skin—but the Shady Lady still covered their mouth to keep sound from escaping.

They could feel the Shady Lady settle over them like some kind of strange blanket. By all rights it shouldn’t make any sense, they shouldn’t be able to feel it—it was the same temperature as the air and whatever mist-creature it was, it allowed the rain to continue to fall over Tamo and Hollis.

But it was there, Tamo knew it was, and it covered them from head to toe like some kind of dark, gauzy cocoon.

It was trembling and Tamo felt an icy knot of fear settle into their gut. What would scare the Shady Lady?

A moment later they had their answer. Something was moving beyond the trees. Even in the terrible downpour they could hear its heavy steps, could hear a terrible hissing like cold rain striking hot stone.

In the darkness cast by the storm clouds they could see a faint glow like a candle’s flame. It started as gold and edged to orange, then to red, then to pale blue like the heart of a fire. The entire thing was shrouded in mist—in  _ steam _ , as if the thing itself was too hot to touch.

Beneath them the ground shook with its steps, even as saturated with water as the ground was.

Hollis had fallen still, broken with shivers as they both stared at the figure.

The boughs of the tree were turned down like an umbrella but it approached the tree, close enough that they could see part of it, could feel the heat that it cast, could see the steam that curled as the wet earth and rain and puddles in the path struck it.

The Shady Lady trembled even harder as the figure stopped beside their tree. It moved, did  _ something _ that caused the light— _ was it glowing?! _ —to move as well, to make the steam billow around it before it was stolen by the storm’s terrible wind.

Around them everything shook as if an enormous voice that they couldn’t hear spoke; above them, the tree groaned, swayed in the wind, and dumped an enormous amount of water on the two—three, if you counted the Shady Lady, but rain rarely seemed to bother it. For a terrifying moment Tamo was afraid that they would drown, the water continuing to come down and down and down on them.

Then it stopped and when they peeked their eyes open the glowing figure was still there, still just beyond the downturned boughs of the tree. It glowed, the lights moving like a living flame, again gold and orange and red and pale blue.

Both of them held their breaths and Hollis gripped Tamo’s arm with bruising strength; Tamo thought that they might be doing the same, unaware of what they were doing in their fear.

After what felt like a lifetime the figure began walking again. The ground shook beneath its steps and the rain hissed and turned into the steam that shrouded it. Slowly the light faded and it was gone.

“What…” Hollis asked in a cracked voice. “What  _ was _ that?”

Above and all around them, the Shady Lady continued to tremble.

* * *

The next morning was overcast, but that was hardly a surprise after the night of rain that had been endured by Kepler.

Save for a few occasional sprinklings the rain had stopped, leaving behind enormous puddles in its wake.

Emergency services were busy all over town, cleaning up downed trees and other calamities caused by the storm. Lightning had struck a few areas but fortunately nobody had been hurt by that.

There were cars that had been crushed by trees and then drowned in the downpour, and more than a few pickup trucks whose beds had been converted into pools that leaked out through the seams. Some cars had even “drowned” in the rain, but Deputy Dewey wasn’t quite savvy enough to understand how that might happen, when cars didn’t breathe.

Some kind of nebulous engine trouble, he supposed.

What was perhaps the most perplexing was the site that some of the officers had called in. Sheriff Owens was on his way but since Dewey was closer, asked for him to take a look first.

It seemed that someone had decided to use the storm to cover up a crime.

Deputy Dewey pulled up next to the small cluster of onlookers who huddled around an officer taking their statement. Seeing him, the officer’s partner walked over and eased Dewey toward the gate leading up to the ruins of the house.

There was a dark lump on the walkway that Dewey at first thought was a trash bag, but it had a strangely matte appearance, like charcoal.

As he approached, he caught the faintest hint of woodsmoke and looked closer at the trash bag. He looked away when he realized just what— _ who _ —the lump on the walkway was.

Turning away, he looked up at the sky and its cover of pale clouds and swallowed quickly to keep from throwing up. “Neighbors say it happened last night,” the officer with him, Wallace, said quietly. “Woke up to find the entire thing up in flames. It was bright enough that they say that it looked like it was noon outside.”

“The rain put it out?” Dewey asked, still squinting up at the sky.

“No,” Wallace said. “They said it happened  _ during _ .”

Forgetting himself, Dewey looked down at the officer. “What are you saying?” he asked. “It was  _ raining  _ last night. Like really, really hard.”

Wallace shook his head. “Same thing we asked. How could a fire like that go during rain that bad? They showed us a video.”

“Arson?” Dewey asked. “Or lightning?”

“Nobody knows,” Wallace replied. “The kid says that she saw something but she’s not making any sense.”

Dewey followed the nod of Wallace’s head to a little girl that was clutching a teddy bear on a nearby porch. Now that he was looking, Dewey could see soot marks on the nearby walls. It was streaked as if water had only recently begun to clean off the dark stains.

And it hadn’t rained since 4am, so said the local weather station. Only little spits and drizzles.

“What, is it a monster?” Dewey asked with a weak laugh. His mind was filled—very briefly, if only to distract himself from the charred person not five feet away—with images of dragons and fire wryms and all manner of fire creature.

Wallace scratched his chin. “Ah.” He seemed almost embarrassed, even talking about the eyewitness of a child who, late at night, had seen a house burn down. “She said it was an angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Have questions? Feel free to come and yell at me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). If that's not your thing, I can also be found on tumblr at [ClassyWastelandBread](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/) but I am almost never there so expect a delay. 
> 
> I love hearing from you!
> 
> ~DC


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost stories in fiction and in real life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're not going to hear from me for a while. 
> 
> Shit got real at work. Between work and summer, my brain is melting out of my ears. Have I mentioned that I hate the summer? 
> 
> Beta'ed by the wonderful [FaiaHae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaHae/works) who also laughed that I included two of my biggest pet peeves in this chapter and in the last. Can you guess what they are?

“—and all night she heard the same sounds on the car,” Jake whispered, the flashlight held under his chin. “ _Tap, tap, tap_ , and the _drip, drip, drip_. And then there was a knock on the door.”

By chance the front doors of the lodge banged, moved in place by the rain before being caught by the locks. Some of the other residents jumped and squeaked before laughing at their fear.

Jake laughed too, looking rather rattled himself. “And then—” At that moment the doors banged again, too fast to be from the wind.

“Is someone out there?” Stern wondered, brow furrowing.

“In this rain?” Barclay asked but stood anyway. “Maybe it’s Dani and Aubrey coming back.”

Mama shook her head. “I hope they stayed in town,” she said. “The rain and wind are making it too dangerous to do much of anything.” She and Barclay walked to the doors and unlocked them, swinging them open.

Two waterlogged forms tumbled in, falling to their knees as they struggled to breathe.

“Tamo!” Mama exclaimed in surprise. “And Hollis.”

Juno came running over. “We need towels and blankets,” she said briskly. “And some dry clothes. The water heater’s out but maybe we can get them close to the fireplace?”

“I’ll get the towels,” Jake volunteered and looked down at the rabbit in his lap. “Oh…wait.”

“I’ll get it,” Barclay offered. “Clear a place near the fireplace, guys.”

Stern eyed the two young adults. “I think I have some extra clothes that might fit,” he said, resolving himself to revealing his most embarrassing nightclothes.

“I have an extra-thick pair of pants,” another guest volunteered. “It’s nice and warm.”

“I have a heavy sweatshirt,” someone else said. “We’ll take a lantern and go and get them.” Both guests took a flashlight from the pile in the middle of their ragged circle and disappeared into the darkness of the lodge.

With a last glance at Mama, Stern picked up a flashlight and made his way back to his room. By the time he made it back, he found a light in the kitchen—Barclay warming up some stew for Tamo and Hollis, no doubt—and both of their unexpected guests were sitting up, having stripped off their drenched jackets and overshirts.

“Come on, I’ll walk you to the bathrooms to change,” Stern offered and with Juno carrying an armful of towels, they headed toward the first-floor bathrooms. He and Juno waited outside in the dark, watching the faint glow of light shine from beneath the door.

“I hope nobody else is out there,” Juno murmured. “It’s raining hard enough that…well, there are a lot of things that can happen out there.”

“Are they okay?” Stern asked just as quietly.

There was a rustling noise next to him and he thought that Juno shrugged. “They’re really chilled but I think if we warm them up and _keep_ them warm—and most importantly, _dry_ —they should be fine. It’s a good thing they made it back here.”

Thinking of the vast expanse of the forest, of the sea of green that he saw from his room, Stern shivered. Someone could very easily get lost out there.

Perhaps even forever, never to be seen again and spoken of only in the whispers of myth and legend.

Especially in an afternoon of rain that blocked out the sun, it was extremely fortunate that they could see enough to get here. Truly fortunate, indeed.

The door opened, revealing Tamo in a mismatched shirt and a pair of sweatpants that were somehow still too long for their long legs. Their face was grim. “Hollis is bleeding.”

* * *

“I…slipped,” Hollis said as Juno and Mama cleaned out their wound in front of the fireplace. “I think I hit my head on a tree.”

“I’ll check you for a concussion in just a moment,” Juno promised.

Hollis shrugged. “I don’t think I have one.”

“Just in case,” Mama said, picking up the flashlight and shining it on the wound on Hollis’ head. “It _looks_ fine now,” she murmured. “You had a bit of tree bark in it. Hopefully I got it all out so it won’t get infected.”

“Infections are nasty business,” Tamo said and Hollis flinched.

They held up both of their hands. “Alright, alright,” they grumbled. “I’ll swing by the doc and see what he says and have him take a look at it, too. Okay?”

Tamo shrugged. “All I can ask,” they said too-sweetly. They were still shivering, their lips having a faint ring of blue around them. Hollis flipped them off, their hand shaking with cold.

“What were you doing out there?” Stern asked.

“It wasn’t due to storm until tonight,” Tamo explained in a too-simple way that implied that they were leaving out a few details. “Hollis and I wanted to go out for a quick hike. The storm snuck up on us.”

Mama snorted. “It snuck up on everyone. Fortunately, all of our guests were more or less accounted for when it hit here.” She sighed. “I hope nobody else was caught out in the downpour.”

“I guess you really can’t believe the weather reports,” one of the guests joked. “The weathermen always lie.”

Very slowly, Mama turned to look at her. “Well, I didn’t realize that you could do a better job.” The guest flushed and looked away.

A moment later, Barclay came out of the kitchen with a steaming tray of food which he placed in front of the them. “There’s more in the dining room, if anyone would like,” Barclay added as he served up the bowls of stew, plates of sliced bread and butter, and hot cups of cider beside Tamo and Hollis. “ _You two_ should stay here and warm up a bit more.”

“You can all come back here to eat,” Mama added as she stood with a grunt. “Where it’s warm. But the food’s in the other room.”

When the last of them was out of earshot, Hollis leaned forward, their eyes looking crazed in the light of the enormous hearth. “Tamo,” they said very quietly and the tattoo artist paused, spoon halfway to their mouth. “ _What did I see?_ ”

Very deliberately Tamo ate the spoonful of stew, chewed, and swallowed. “I will tell you later. I promise, Hollis.”

Not even the rhyme—which usually made them smile just a little—seemed to distract Hollis. Very slowly they nodded. “Okay,” they said.

Because Tamo didn’t lie, not when they said the “p” word.

“Okay,” Hollis said again and looked down at their stew, trying not to think of the thing they had seen in the darkness of the forest. How the air had steamed around it, how its light had flickered like a flame as it moved and how the ground dried beneath its feet.

It was there in their mind’s eye and in the dance of the flames and the crackle of embers in the hearth in front of them.

They shivered.

* * *

_He stood in a clearing among the trees. It was too small to call it a proper meadow or clearing, but there was enough space to make it a nice camping spot._

_On one end there was a fallen tree, the great height of its bole giving testament to its great age, and ringing the edges as if deliberate were vines that were beginning to turn green again with the coming of spring. A portion of the area had been cleared of grass and flowers of all shapes and sizes had been planted in its place. Beside it was another area that had been dug out and the sides and bottom tamped down as if to make a small pond._

_In a sunny spot next to the fallen tree was a small lap desk that had been propped up into a makeshift easel. There was a notebook held open by an open pencil case filled with pencils and erasers._

_A parasol was held over the lap desk by a creature that looked like ink that came to life. A watery knob formed like a makeshift head which it turned toward him: two lights like fireflies seemed to stare right through him._

Duck sat up with a gasp.

“What is it?” Indrid asked sleepily, his voice distorted through his mandibles. “Is something wrong?”

Bending his knees up, Duck hugged them as close to his chest as he could and tried to will away the unease he felt from his vision. A moment later, hands—human-shaped hands, and a human-shaped body—pressed against Duck’s back.

“Easy,” Indrid murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of Duck’s neck. “Just focus on breathing. Nice and slow.”

Duck lost track of how long they sat like that until the icy grips of fear faded from his stomach. He slumped back against Indrid. “Fuck.”

“Mm,” Indrid hummed. “Your guests might hear us.”

Groaning weakly, Duck slapped at Indrid who laughed. “What time is it?”

“The ungodly hour of four in the morning.”

Duck groaned. “Ungodly, indeed. Let’s just…go back to sleep.”

“We can’t go back to sleep like this,” Indrid pointed out, sounding far too amused. “Come on, lie down.”

Squinting up at his boyfriend, Duck could see himself reflected back in red in Indrid’s glasses. “Indrid?”

Indrid hummed and smiled, leaning down to collect a sweet kiss from Duck who sighed, letting his eyes slide shut. He felt Indrid lean back, heard the sound of his glasses tapping the bedside table.

He felt Indrid’s body swell, change. It should have been disturbing but it was somehow only soothing, feeling his soft white fur spread over his body. Most importantly he felt Indrid’s second set of arms wrap around him too, pulling him closer into Indrid’s embrace.

“Mmm,” he hummed, burying his face in Indrid’s thick orange ruff. “I like this.”

Beneath and around him, Indrid chuckled. “I do, too.”

Sleep was slow to return but the icy grip of fear receded quickly beneath Indrid’s warm embrace.

* * *

Boyd stood at the edge of the crowd and watched thoughtfully. Kepler wasn’t a superstitions town, nor was it so small and Christian that it bordered on zealotry, but he could still hear the whispers.

An angel did it.

For now, everyone’s shock kept them from remembering that he was an outsider but he barely needed to ask or show his face. Everyone was scared.

Scared people talked.

They talked about how the little girl was the only one that had seen—an angel, wreathed in flames.

Most discussed amongst themselves a more logical reasoning. A meteor, perhaps, would explain the way that the fire had fallen from the sky.

An arsonist, who had drenched poor Christina Minnick’s house with gasoline and lit it on fire; she had escaped the house but not the fire and burned on the sidewalk so close to the gate.

But some of them still whispered. The girl said she saw an angel, what if it was an angel?

Then the rumors started. I heard that poor Christina Minnick had cheated on her husband, that’s why he left her.

I heard that poor Christina Minnick didn’t go to church.

I heard that poor Christina Minnick…

The poor thing. In seeking to understand her death, all anyone was doing was dragging her name through the mud. Boyd looked around at the other houses. There was soot and ash from the smoke and heat of the fire on all of the walls closest to the enormous blaze but in far fewer quantities than he would have expected.

Looking at the home of the little girl that claimed to have seen angels, he realized that it was because the rain had already begun to wash it away, to fade its marks from reality. “I saw it,” a little voice said quietly and Boyd turned his head, realizing that the little girl was standing behind the fence he was leaning on with the air of someone told to stay out of the way of more important matters.

“Did you?” he asked, suddenly remembering how awkward he was around kids. He cleared his throat. “You saw an angel, didn’t you?”

The little girl squinted up at him. “You think I’m crazy too.”

“Not at all,” Boyd assured her. “I’m just surprised that anyone’s seen an angel.”

“It was a weird angel,” the girl said. “It had six wings!”

Boyd looked at her. “An angel with six wings? Then how did you know it was an angel?”

She giggled. “Because it was,” she said as if it were obvious.

Ah. A child’s logic. Boyd nodded. “Did it come down from the sky?”

The girl shrugged. “It came from the trees,” she said, pointing toward the forest to Boyd’s right. “And then it flew like this!” her hand traced a series of wavering loops in the air and she ran around the yard like that, her arms extended like wings. Then she ran over to Boyd again and jumped to a stop. “Like that! And then the house caught fire.” She threw her hands into the air.

Boyd nodded. “I haven’t seen an angel before. What did it look like?”

Fortunately the girl didn’t seem to think this was as stupid a question as it sounded. She ran to the porch and came back with a notebook which she proudly showed to Boyd.

“Beautiful work!” he checked the crude signature at the bottom. “Addison.”

She gave a dimpled smile at him.

Boyd stared down at the picture in his hands, committing it to memory. Even if it was a child’s drawing and a result of the overactive imagination of a child that witnessed a traumatic event, Boyd knew better than to discount it so early.

And of course, he had seen a lot of shows on the telly that started like this. Even as ridiculous as it was that an _angel_ had done such a thing, it amused him enough to keep this conversation—and the girl’s drawing—in mind.

“The fire on it moved,” the girl insisted. “It was SHWOOM!” She waved her hands vigorously in the air.

It was this motion and her yells that attracted the attention of her mother, who came over with a suspicious look for Boyd. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you talking to my daughter?” she snatched the notebook back from his hands.

“I was just passing through,” Boyd replied easily. It was true enough. “I was looking for the tattoo shop when I saw the commotion and wondered what had happened.”

The woman scowled at him. “Are you a reporter?”

“Absolutely not,” Boyd assured her quickly. “No such thing. I just came back by this fence to watch the proceedings.”

Again, this was true. And he hadn’t sought out the girl’s company—she had more or less done that herself.

“She knows better than to talk to strangers,” the mother insisted as if she could read his mind but she sounded doubtful.

Boyd nodded but said nothing because there really _was_ nothing to say. “Do you know where I could find the tattoo shop?”

The woman frowned disapprovingly at him. “Oh, you’re one of _those_.” She sounded disgusted, her lips curling.

Boyd couldn’t be sure if she hated tattoos or simply clung to something to be angry about. He supposed it was the latter more than the former—after the events of this morning, it would be a safer thing to focus her emotions on.

He shrugged. “I heard a lot of things of the artist. I’m not one for tattoos myself, but I know a few who have received tattoos from him. I was wondering where I could find him to meet him, myself.”

“They,” she corrected automatically. “You’d know that if you heard anything about them. And I doubt that Peapod has _their_ shop open, anyway.”

Boyd’s brows rose. “I believe it was mentioned but I hadn’t paid much mind to it,” he admitted.

“I don’t understand it myself,” the woman grumbled. “But it’s none of my business—and it’s only right to call them what they want to be called.” She pointed down the street behind Boyd. “It’s down that way. Follow this street, take a left near the general store, and follow the road almost out of town. It’s closer to the tourist district than actually in town. It’ll be a bit of a hike.”

“Thank you,” Boyd murmured and turned to leave. “It was a pleasure speaking with you.”

“Wait.”

Surprised, Boyd turned around to the woman again. “Yes?”

The woman hesitated. “There’s something not right about that place,” she said. “Just…be careful.”

Boyd nodded. That much was obvious—tattoos had always had a negative connotation, often compared (whether intentional or not) with the vulgarity of sailors and their pinup tattoos or with the barbaric peoples that marked their skin with scars and ink. But his hand ached—all in his mind, the splinter long since removed and the small wound healed—and he was immediately remembered of the strange red mark on his palm from Ned’s tattoo.

On his _arse_.

Another reason to visit this mysterious Peapod—if only to apologize for Ned.

Boyd made a face as he turned away. Even now, he was still cleaning up after Ned’s messes.

“I will keep that in mind. Thank you.”

* * *

The creature that Pod called the Shady Lady sat perfectly still on the table in the middle of Pod’s apartment. It didn’t breathe—didn’t need to, because it wasn’t a real _animal_ , and Hollis bit back more hysterical laughter.

It sat perfectly still, as if some kind of midnight glass figurine. Then, as Hollis watched, the lights in its body like a thousand miniature stars and nebulae in hundreds of shades of gold and white and purple and blue moved.

Hollis was reminded of the rippling of a cat’s skin and coat as it moved. They bit back a hysterical laugh and bent their head over the steaming mug of tea that Pod had offered them. The Shady Lady continued to watch them, staring with strange golden orbs of light that mimicked eyes.

“‘Creatures from another world’,” Hollis repeated. “You realize how this sounds, right?”

Across from them, Pod nodded. They had a cup of tea in front of them as well in a color-changing mug activated by the heat of the tea; the black cat outlined on the front seemed to be flipping Hollis off.

The Shady Lady moved suddenly and Hollis jumped; it streamed like water through the air and formed again on Pod’s knee. Then it rose on its hind legs like a bear and stared down at Pod who lifted a hand and ran their fingers through its inky body.

The miniature galaxies swirled and rippled as the Shady Lady leaned into the touch like a cat.

Pod didn’t say anything, just nodded quietly. Then they picked up an etch-a-sketch, one of many that Hollis had seen around their apartment and had dismissed as a strange quirk—perhaps Pod simply liked etch-a-sketches.

Hollis watched as Pod handed the toy to the Shady Lady.

They handed the toy to the Shady Lady _who held it_ in dark grey and black tendrils. It moved as no living creature moved, partially like some kind of liquid and partially like some kind of enormous sea slug or snake that undulated its body through the water in ripples and waves.

It flowed and “swam” to the coffee table and Hollis watched in horrified awe as it moved Pod’s mug of tea out of the way with _tentacles_ that branched out at the ends like a human’s hands and _oh_ , that was a terrifying thought.

Hollis swallowed the lump in their throat as the Shady Lady’s cat-like appearance seemed to dissolve, turning into a swirling cloud of mist around the toy.

They nearly dropped their mug when they realized that they could see the white knobs—barely visible through the Shady Lady’s mist-like body—turn. It was drawing.

Suddenly they remembered the etch-a-sketch that Pod had been looking at before their hike. They had thought that it looked like the ravings of a mind gone mad and had wondered because Pod wasn’t mad, not like that.

The Shady Lady billowed away from the etch-a-sketch and returned to Pod’s knee where it curled up like a smug cat. Nervously Hollis looked down at the toy and nearly dropped their mug. On it was a picture of a woman in a billowing dress from a time long gone. Her arms were facing the wrong way.

Below it were words written in a messy scrawl, though Hollis supposed that writing on an etch-a-sketch wasn’t particularly _easy_ : _I am the pretty thing that lives in this house_.

Looking down at the etch-a-sketch, Pod made a disgusted sound. “Were you on my Netflix again?” they asked the Shady Lady.

Pod and the Shady Lady looked at Hollis when they dropped their mug, spilling their fragrant tea all over the hardwood floors. Hollis buried their face in their hands and laughed and laughed hysterically until they couldn’t breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Have questions? Feel free to come and yell at me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). If that's not your thing, I can also be found on tumblr at [ClassyWastelandBread](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/) but I am almost never there so expect a delay. 
> 
> I love hearing from you!
> 
> ~DC


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I work in a company that gets really busy in the summer, and combined with a pseudo-promotion (and more responsibilities), this means that my brain's usually pretty fried by the time I get home from work XD
> 
> Now that the action is starting to ~~(slowly)~~ pick up, hopefully I'll be more into it. If not, I might have to adjust my update schedule.

“I’m sorry,” Hollis said very slowly. “I just…I’m not sure that I understand.”

“There’s not much to it,” Pod yelled from the kitchen. “Don’t think too hard about it.”

The swirling galaxy of…smoke? Ooze? Tapped at the etch-a-sketch and Hollis carefully picked it up, shaking it vigorously to erase it.

“I don’t think I’m looking at it the right way,” Hollis said apologetically. “Was there  _ actually _ a ghost?”

“I told you not to think too hard about it,” Pod yelled. “It’ll keep you there forever.”

Reaching down, Hollis hesitated, their fingers an inch away from the Shady Lady’s ghostly form. A portion of the creature’s body lifted and formed into a cat-shaped head. Very gently it eased itself into Hollis’s extended hand, much like a cat would solicit caresses.

“Oh,” Hollis breathed. “Can I…pick you up?”

The Shady Lady didn’t seem at all opposed to this, abandoning the etch-a-sketch and flowing into Hollis’s cupped hands. It curled and curled and curled itself until it was the size of one of Hollis’s fists, its body dark as ink as it compressed itself. Then it lifted a small knob of a head, which had the two golden lights like fireflies that seemed to serve as its eyes, and watched Hollis.

“What  _ are _ you?” Hollis wondered.

Pod found them like that when they returned, bowls of food in their hand. Seeing them, the Shady Lady bounced in Hollis’s hands like an eager child. “The Shady Lady. It seems to like it well enough.” To the Shady Lady, they said, “be patient, I will go and get your bowl of food. Do you have another movie you want to watch?”

Hollis watched as the Shady Lady flowed out of their hands and toward the TV remote, hovering over it as it tapped at the buttons. “What did you make?” Hollis asked weakly, a little overwhelmed. Pod feeding them was a much safer topic.

“It’s a simple thing,” Pod said apologetically. “I didn’t feel that it was a good idea to go to the store.” They watched as the Shady Lady lifted a portion of its body to form a head to shake it at them. “Right. I’m going to get the bread from the kitchen and the Shady Lady’s bowl. It’s shakshuka.” 

Hollis looked down dubiously at the shallow dish that had been placed in front of them. Pod had introduced them to a lot of foods but this shakshuka looked more like chunky tomato soup with…was that an egg?

They watched the Shady Lady bounce excitedly in place, looking like a lava lamp on fast-forward. As soon as the thought entered their head, they nearly dropped the strange creature as they began to laugh.

“Oh dear,” they heard Pod say as they returned. “Again?”

When Hollis regained themselves, they found that the Shady Lady had stretched out into a shadowy shawl over their shoulders, unnervingly weightless, with a cat-shaped head over their right shoulder. One of its firefly eyes was trained on the TV (though how Hollis could tell this, when the Shady Lady didn’t have any pupils or sclera with which to look, they weren’t sure) and one was trained on Hollis’s face.

“What  _ are _ you?” Hollis asked it again, lifting a hand as if to pet it; their hand fell through it like smoke. They looked at Pod who was using a slice of bread to scoop up the egg in their dish. “It’s like mist but not.”

Pod chuckled. “It’s not a meteorological event,” they agreed. “Sometimes it is affected by fans but sometimes it’s not; I think it’s more of a personal choice than anything.”

The Shady Lady nodded its cat-shaped head as if in agreement and flowed down Hollis’s arm to perch in their palm. They watched as it condensed itself, going from semi-transparent to opaque as it became smaller and smaller. As it collapsed on itself it became shiny, like spilled ink, until it resembled some kind of bird carved out of black glass.

“Don’t watch it eat,” Pod advised. “It’s unnerving.”

The Shady Lady shifted and became a bird that hopped off the edge of Hollis’s hands and fell into a puddle beside the bowl set aside for it. Then it swarmed over it like boiling tar and Hollis looked away. It ate soundlessly—however such a creature may eat—and Hollis was glad to not hear any form of noise from it.

They wondered if it could make  _ any _ noise.

“It’s not traditional,” Pod was saying, lifting their bowl. “But I added some ground meat. It’s almost like chili. Traditionally it is more or less eggs poached in tomato sauce, but I’ve never been the traditional type. So I made it a chili, instead.”

Knowing that Pod could talk about food for hours, Hollis only nodded and tried a spoonful of the chili. It wasn’t to their tastes but not so off-putting that it would be any hardship for them to finish the bowl. With the egg yolk and a slice of the sourdough it was much better.

“How long…?” Pod glanced at them and Hollis nodded at the Shady Lady.

“I think we’re going on a year and a half now? It feels like it’s been longer.” Pod shrugged. “I didn’t exactly write the date down when I met a moving shadow.”

Thinking back to all of the times that Pod’s shadow seemed to move, Hollis shuddered.

Then they thought of the glowing thing they had seen in the forest and the chili, warming them up from the inside, couldn’t fight the cold knot of fear that formed in their stomach. They swallowed hard and reached for their cup of tea.

As if sensing this, the Shady Lady formed a head out of the dark mess covering the bowl and looked at Hollis. It flowed away and toward Hollis where it became a cat again and peered at their face, twisting its head this way and that as if curious.

“What’s it doing?” Hollis asked and then remembered that the Shady Lady was intelligent enough to respond. “What are you doing?”

The Shady Lady shifted from its cat-shape, splitting into a many-armed star. Then the arms shifted, forming two trunks like legs, two trunks like arms, and six shaped like wings. Four of these wings curled, obscuring its body; the remaining two stretched out as if flying.

“You called it the Seraph earlier,” Pod told the Shady Lady. “Please don’t tell me it’s literal.”

Nervous, Hollis looked at Pod. “Seraph? Like the  _ angel? _ ”

“It had been acting strange lately,” Pod explained. “Earlier I asked it what was wrong and it said ‘Seraph’.”

Thinking back to the etch-a-sketch that they had seen Pod putting away the other day, Hollis nodded. It had said “Seraph” over and over again.

“So, what was it? The Seraph?” Hollis asked, nibbling on their piece of bread.

Pod hushed them. “Let’s focus on eating for now.” They nodded pointedly at the Shady Lady who was still (somehow) consuming it’s bowl of food.

Nodding, Hollis tried to focus on eating and not on the thoughts that buzzed around in their head. On the TV, a helicopter flew toward a lush green island as the music swelled.

As Pod later cleared away the plates, the Shady Lady dragged it’s etch-a-sketch closer to Hollis and wrote ARE YOU OK?

Hollis took a deep, shuddering breath. “No,” they admitted. “But go on anyway. What…are you?”

The Shady Lady didn’t answer and thinking that it needed it’s message erased, Hollis shook the etch-a-sketch and put it back down. But the Shady Lady continued to watch them, it’s cat-shaped head cocked thoughtfully to the side. At last it fell into an inky blob and flowed over the etch-a-sketch and wrote out a new message: I JUST AM.

“Where are you from?” Hollis tried instead and the Shady Lady manipulated the dials to create a new line on the etch-a-sketch. “Why do you us an etch-a-sketch?”

“It learned from watching me play with it,” Pod admitted. “I had a keychain one and it used to hide in my bag and play with it.” Hollis remembered the trinket, attached to the black canvas bag that Pod wore with their long blue skirt. Back then, their hair had been electric blue to match what was, at the time, their favorite skirt.

Hollis wondered if the Shady Lady was the reason that they had used that bag so often.

WHAT USE? the Shady Lady wondered.

“One of those writing boards?” Hollis suggested. “The magnetic ones.”

“Magna-doodles,” Pod murmured. “I don’t have one, but we can try pen and paper, see if that’s easier for you.”

While Pod dug around for a scrap piece of paper and a pen (something that greatly amused Hollis, knowing that Pod was an artist and kept notebooks everywhere), they looked at the Shady Lady and offered a hand to it. It flowed into their palm, becoming smaller and darker until its cat-shaped body could fit in their hand. Cautiously, Hollis stroked their fingers along its miniature head and smiled when it rumbled as if purring.

“This is so weird,” Hollis whispered. “But I think I’m getting used to it.”

Pod snorted. “Wait until it moves on your skin,” they laughed. “I’m  _ still _ not used to it, and it does that almost every day.” seeing Hollis’ expression, they grinned and tapped the geometric tattoo on their neck. “It likes to hide here, especially when I have a client.”

When they came close enough, the Shady Lady extended a tendril and hooked it around Pod’s wrist. Then it darted up their arm, rowing a dozen tentacles like an octopus, to wrap, scarf-like, around Pod’s neck. As Hollis watched, fascinated and somewhat disturbed, it then seemed to flatten against Pod’s skin until it was a thin grey shadow; then like liquid spilled in reverse, it seemed to soak into the dark lines of Pod’s tattoo.

“Does…it hurt?” Hollis asked. “Or feel weird?”

Pod shrugged. “It’s nice in the summer when it’s hot out,” they said unhelpfully. “But…it almost feels like nothing.”

The Shady Lady peeled away from Pod’s skin, taking on the shape of a cat once more and walking down their arm and back to the table. It sat beside the scrap piece of paper that Pod laid out in front of it and looked back and forth between Hollis and Pod.

“Here,” Hollis said and picked up the pen. “Like this.”

The Shady Lady moved over their skin, like cool air or some kind of cool liquid over their hand.  _ Hello _ , Hollis wrote.

They released the pencil and the Shady Lady peeled away like some kind of inky sticker. It gripped the pencil itself with a dozen little tendrils and wrote shakily,  _ Hollis _ .

Hollis swallowed. “Yeah,” they said when it formed a face on the back of its “head” to look at them. “That’s me.”

_ Faster _ , the Shady Lady observed.  _ Questions. Ask. _

“Where are you from?” Hollis asked. “What are you?”

_ I am. I am from— _ here it stopped writing and began to draw. It turned out that the Shady Lady was a decent artist as well.

Trees ringed a clearing with a stone archway.

With a black tentacle, the Shady Lady pointed to the drawing.

* * *

“It’s about that time,” Mama argued. “And this is certainly an unusual crime.”

Ned shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s not,” he assured her. “Just that…what will that look like? A bunch of strangers starting to ask the wrong questions about…” he gestured vaguely. “The police won’t like us poking our noses into it. If we’re lucky they’ll just brush it off as gossip mongers but if not…” he trailed off and shrugged.

“Hate to say it, but Ned’s right,” Duck added.

“Hey!” Ned protested.

Duck held up his hands placatingly. “Not that I am saying that it’s unfortunate that you’re right, just that it’s the truth that’s unfortunate. What reason do we have to ask too much about it? Did we know whose house it was?” one by one they all shook their head. “We’re not friends or family and—thank goodness—none of us were nearby. We simply have no reason to be asking.”

“We can’t just leave it,” Aubrey protested. “If it’s a bom-bom, then we don’t want to leave it just wandering around.”

“If it’s an Abomination, what are we going to do?” Ned argued back. “If it is, it’s already strong enough to have set an entire house—and an entire  _ person _ —on fire in the middle of a torrential downpour.”

“That’s assuming that 1) it was an Abomination, and 2) that its strength is fire,” Barclay said quietly. “It could have been a gas leak or perhaps just a case of arson.”

Aubrey stared down at her fingers, rubbing her thumb against a nail where the glossy top coat of her nail polish had chipped off, leaving a small triangle of matte polish. “What if it is?” she asked quietly. “This whole place is at risk.”

“Everything’s wet from the rains,” Mama said thoughtfully.

“It set an entire house on fire in the middle of the downpour,” Aubrey said flatly. “That’s a lot of fire.”

They all fell into thoughtful silence. “Where did it go?” Duck wondered. “Into the forest, do you think?”

“I wonder if it has anything to do with the attack on Pod.” Aubrey put her hands to her mouth. “What if—”

“Can’t be,” Mama said firmly. “The Abomination wouldn’t have come out that early. And remember, that was almost a week ago.”

Frustrated, Ned sat down hard in his chair. “It feels like this was all just a waste of time,” he grumbled, reaching up to scratch his chin absently. “No, it was good to talk about this, but we don’t have enough information to  _ do _ anything about it.” He sighed. “Hate to bring it up, but what about the little girl?”

Immediately, everyone looked at him. “ _ What _ little girl?” Mama asked suspiciously.

“There was a little girl that said she saw everything,” Duck mused. “I remember hearing about it—I’m surprised that Juno didn’t tell you, Mama. Apparently, the girl said that she saw an angel jump out of the trees and set everything on fire.”

Mama frowned. “I try to keep work and pleasure separate.” Everyone rolled their eyes.

“That doesn’t mean much,” Ned said dismissively. “Little kids, up that late, in the middle of a thunderstorm? They could see anything. Kids have very… _ creative _ imaginations.”

Duck shrugged. “Maybe,” he agreed. “She could have been awake from a nightmare and been ready to jump at every light and shadow. Maybe she was afraid of the lightning and thought she saw an angel coming down from the sky. Or maybe she really did see something.”

“It’s different talking to a kid,” Barclay cautioned. “Her mother will be concerned for her, especially if she’s been vocal about seeing it. She won’t want her daughter to seem crazy and will be on the lookout for people looking to capitalize on her kid’s story.”

They all looked pointedly at Ned who ignored them. “Maybe I’ll pay her a visit,” he mused. Looking as if he had only just noticed their looks, he held out his hands. “Well, isn’t that expected? As owner of The Cryptonomica? Word’s got out that the girl saw something…wouldn’t it be expected that I would show up at some point?”

Mama and Barclay wore identical frowns of disapproval. They all looked over at Thacker as he bumped into the chains blocking off his area of the bunker. Seeing that the nails held strong, they turned away.

“And what if they just call the police on you?” Aubrey asked with a pointed look. “I’m sure they’d be excited to jump all over you.”

Ned made a face. “The police will be jumpy,” Barclay added. “We need to be extra careful.”

“Especially when they start looking into it,” Duck agreed. “I’m sure there will be a lot of frustration all around if they can’t find the answers they want. This is the kind of showy case that they don’t want in a small town like this.”

“So, what?” Ned asked tiredly. “We wait until it kills again?”

They fell into a tense silence broken by Thacker growling from his penned-off section of the bunker.

Finally, Duck sighed and stood with a groan. “Well, I’m gonna get back to work. Gonna recommend that we all be very careful in the meantime, especially around the trees. Stay in groups of two or more. And keep an eye out.” He looked at Ned and Aubrey with a frown. “If you ask around,  _ be careful _ .”

Nodding at them all, Duck left the bunker. “Listen to your own advice!” Aubrey yelled after him and laughed when his muffled cursing echoed in the stairs. The cellar doors slammed shut.

“I’ll put out feelers,” Ned said, leaning back in his chair to stare up at the ceiling. “See if Kirby’s heard anything about it. He’s more in touch with the local gossip.” 

“What if it  _ is _ a Bom-Bom?” Aubrey wondered quietly. “If it’s strong enough to set fires that large during a torrential downpour…”

“We’ll cross that bridge when it comes,” Ned said dismissively.

Mama didn’t look convinced. “They’re getting stronger. Whatever is sending them sees you all as a threat. We need to be more careful.”

“What is it after? Why did it attack who it did?” Barclay shook his head. “We have too many questions right now. It’s best if we just lay low and gather more information for the moment.”

Aubrey got up and brushed off imaginary dust. “I don’t like this,” she grumbled and left.

“I don’t think any of us do,” Ned murmured into the quiet cellar.

* * *

Hollis scrubbed their hands nervously on their jeans and walked into The Cryptonomica, praying that they wouldn’t encounter Ned. They stood in the dark entryway, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. In the meantime, Kirby came out from behind the counter.

“Hollis!” he said, sounding pleased. “What brings you here?”

“I just had a thought and wanted to do some research,” Hollis replied, digging around in their pockets for their wallet.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Kirby said with a smile. “Ned’s not here, and if it’s for research, I doubt that he’d care too much.”

That was a lie, a bad one at that, but Hollis wasn’t one to turn down a free ticket so they tucked their wallet away. Kirby rubbed his palms eagerly together. “So, what is it?” he wanted to know. “We get so few visitors that want to do  _ research _ .”

Hollis wondered if they should have tried the library, first. “I’m curious about moving shadows.”

That certainly took Kirby aback and he blinked in surprise. “Not…the Mothman,” he said slowly. “Not Bigfoot, which we have an FBI agent here investigating. You want to know about…moving shadows?”

“The light source isn’t moving,” Hollis said flatly.

Kirby shook his head. “I’m not saying that,” he said so earnestly that Hollis almost felt bad. “It’s just…not what I was expecting. Okay, what kind of moving shadows are we talking about? Like Allegory of the Cave kind of moving shadows?”

Turning away, Hollis looked around. “What about spirits? And other ghosts?”

“It sounds like you’re talking about two different things,” Kirby laughed. “Spirits, ghosts, moving shadows. What have you seen?”

For a split-second Hollis considered telling him about the Shady Lady. About the Seraph.

In the end they knew it was best if they said nothing. Kirby meant well but his eagerness would be the downfall of Pod’s patience and sanity. It would be the downfall of the Shady Lady, as Kirby flung question after question to it, about it, and posted about it on his various blogs. Even if he promised not to, the excitement of meeting such a strange creature would no doubt be too much.

The thought saddened Hollis.

“I haven’t seen anything,” Hollis lied and looked at the displays set up. Aged newspaper clippings of the Silver Bridge incident were in a shadow box next to articles about the Chernobyl disaster in Pripyat that claim that the Mothman had visited that area as well. Just in front of them, in a lighted alcove, was a mannequin dressed up like the Mothman, with dusty faux fur.

Kirby shrugged. “That’s a shame.”

They fell into awkward silence as Hollis wandered around the museum.

“Well,” Kirby said at last. “There are of course spirits and demons—summoned familiars. But I don’t know of anything like a shadow walking, unless it chooses to manifest itself that way.”

Thinking of how the Shady Lady condensed itself until it shone like a statue carved of jet, Hollis nodded slowly. “What about shapeshifters?”

Kirby frowned at them. “I think I know what you’re after,” he said with a sudden severity that made the pit of Hollis’ stomach drop. “You’re going to get Peapod to do a cryptid tattoo for you.”

“Yes,” Hollis agreed quickly. “But I want something  _ different _ .”

Bouncing excitedly, Kirby took them to a different set of displays. “There are a lot of shapeshifting cryptids,” he told them. “How about one of these? Selkies? Or the swan maidens from…I think Scandinavia. They shed their pelts and become beautiful women. If someone steals their pelt, they’re trapped.”

“Seems a bit...dark, don’t you think?”

Kirby laughed. “ _ All _ of Peapod’s artwork is dark,” he said and Hollis bit their tongue from telling him that he knew jack shit about Pod’s work. “Would you prefer a demon familiar?”

“Are they just black cats?” 

“There are more than just black cats,” Kirby pointed out. “Almost too many to name. They can take on any shape to suit their partners’ purpose. There is a book series that features demon familiars. There was a movie adaptation of it in 2007 but it was a huge flop. I hate to say it, but the books were better.

“They don’t always appear as animals though,” Kirby added. “Sometimes they’re described as humanoid figures, either corporeal or made of smoke. The image of a black cat being a witch’s familiar with the most popular but really they can be anything.”

Hollis nodded thoughtfully and thought of the Shady Lady and how it moved like ink, or a thousand-armed octopus, but swayed in the air like smoke. “Are witches or warlocks or…um…is there a neutral version?”

“ _ Actually _ ,” Kirby said and Hollis barely resisted the urge to call him a nerd. “The word ‘witch’ is, you could almost say, neuter. It was used to describe  _ any _ witch—‘warlock’ is a separate idea entirely. There is a distinction between them and it’s kind of confusing if you go too deeply but in short,  _ warlock _ is a derivation of an old word in like…I don’t know, Scottish or Old English that basically implies a traitor.”

Hollis opened their mouth to interrupt but Kirby kept talking, gesturing excitedly.

“Warlocks use their magic  _ against _ another, which is why their name means like ‘turning against’ or something. Witches use their magic—or herbalism—to help others.  _ Actually _ —”

“I get it,” Hollis interrupted and Kirby looked so endearingly put out that they sighed. “Did witches  _ have _ magic?”

Kirby’s face brightened almost comically. “It depends on who you ask,” he said. “Most of the time they were just simple herbalists. The myth that they participated in magic was mostly perpetuated—or so it’s said—by ‘modern’ doctors of the time who felt that they were being deprived business by these village herbalists. A lot of the stereotypes can be explained away by that.”

He led Hollis over to a display that had the standard silhouette of a witch on a broomstick with a cat riding in front of her. Hollis wondered what they had gotten themselves into and sent a quick message to Pod that they would be late to meet them for lunch.

“The most icon, her broomstick—”

Hollis sighed.

* * *

“ _ Hours _ , Pod,” Hollis complained. “I was there for  _ hours _ .”

From the kitchen, Pod laughed. “I know. Your sandwich got soggy.”

“Insult to injury,” Hollis lamented. On their stomach, the Shady Lady watched them with it’s firefly eyes. Hollis ran their fingers through the strange creature and watched as they passed through it as if it were mist. “I can’t tell if you’re doing that on purpose or not.”

The Shady Lady leaped on the back of the couch, spun in a circle, and fell off the edge.

“It gets like this,” Pod said apologetically. “I had a client come in and it fed well. As far as I can tell, it’s almost as if it has a sugar rush.”

Hollis sat up quickly. “What do you mean it  _ fed well _ ?” they looked around and couldn’t find the Shady Lady.

“It didn’t eat your sandwich,” Pod assured them without turning around. Movement on top of the cabinet caught their attention. “No, get down from there.” they left the stove and moved, their hands outstretched toward the cabinets. “Come here.”

Like ink being poured out of a jar the Shady Lady flowed from the shadows and into Pod’s cupped palms. 

“I thought it ate human food,” Hollis said, skin prickling with unease. The Shady Lady’s surface rippled like boiling liquid. 

Pod smiled, bouncing it in the air before bringing it to their throat where it connected in a hundred fine black strands to the tattoo on their neck. Then it sucked itself in and seemed to disappear into their throat. “It  _ can _ and it seems to like to,” Pod agreed. “But they eat best at the shop.”

“What do they eat?” Hollis asked faintly. 

As if completely unbothered, as if completely oblivious to Hollis’s unease, Pod turned back to the stove. “Pain.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the facts that Kirby talked about were discussed in the Witch Museum in Salem Massachusetts. I went there about two years ago for my friend's wedding and some of us visited a few of the museums there. It wasn't what I expected, but it was really interesting--they talked about superstition, the origins of the witch hunts in Europe and in Salem, and the myths of witchcraft and witch burning. 
> 
> Love it? Hate it? Come and tell me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). 
> 
> ~DC


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the update to the tags. 
> 
> I don't want to spoil too much, but especially in this chapter there is background character death, even if it is not explicitly described. It is canon-typical violence and death and the scene is based on one of the episodes though here the scene is greatly altered to fit this narrative. 
> 
> This story takes place before the Mimic arc and actually you could say that it more or less replaces it. Since I don't think I've ever actually stated any of this. I'm pretty sure you all figured it out anyway lol.

At first Hollis thought that they had walked into a spiderweb until it closed around them.

Then the Shady Lady created a head and looked at them with its firefly eyes and they struggled to catch their breath. “What the _fuck?_ ” they demanded breathlessly.

To its credit the Shady Lady almost seemed apologetic, though how they could tell without a face that showed emotion, Hollis would never know.

For a long moment Hollis struggled to regulate their breathing, rubbing their arms through their jacket to chase away the fear that had turned their muscles to ice. When they looked for the Shady Lady again, they found that it had settled on a patch of mud nearby and had written, ARE YOU OKAY?

“Yeah,” they said, shivering. It was still unnerving to be speaking to what was, in essence, a living shadow, no matter how intelligent it was.

GOOD, the Shady Lady said in the alluvium left by the torrential rains. WHY HERE?

Hollis looked around to make sure that nobody was there, and put their hands on their hips. “I need to check on my plants.”

The Shady Lady narrowed its eyes, erased its messages, and drew three diagrams: a rain cloud with lightning, a flower, and a crude figure that after some squinting, Hollis realized was to represent the Seraph.

A picture might be worth a thousand words, but Hollis had no idea what it was trying to say.

“Are you saying that it was looking at the flowers that got us in that mess?” they guessed.

The Shady Lady wrote, THAT WORKS TOO. It drew another rain cloud and arrows from the Seraph to both clouds.

“Is there another storm coming?” Hollis asked and looked up at the sky. It was overcast but the clouds were still pale, rather than grey with rain.

When they looked down, the Shady Lady had formed as an ink-black cat in the middle of the path. Seeing that it had their attention, the cat-shape changed into the six-winged form that Hollis recognized as one that represented the Seraph. It lifted its six wings skyward and lights rippled along its body. Then it dissolved into a wave full of gnashing mouths.

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” Hollis said flatly, trying in vain to hide their unease. “Is another storm coming soon?”

The Shady Lady formed a head and nodded.

Hollis looked into the darkness of the trees. “I’ll be quick,” they decided.

They almost expected the Shady Lady to stop them but instead it scrambled up their pants and settled, in the form of a large black bird, on their shoulder. “You going to protect me?” Hollis asked, half joking. The Shady Lady nodded and pecked their cheek. It was clear that the Shady Lady knew nothing of birds because it didn’t hurt as much as it should have. It felt like a thin plastic coating around some kind of liquid. Hollis laughed. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Nobody else was on the trails, not that Hollis expected to see anyone. The ground was saturated with water and more than once they had to climb off the path to avoid puddles that would have soaked them up to their knees.

Surprisingly, the creek and bridge were not as bad off as they had expected, the water still turbulent but not as high as Hollis would have thought so soon after a torrential rain. It was still a few hand-lengths below the platform and they made a mental note to return quickly, just in case the creek began to swell again.

When they stepped off of the path, the Shady Lady began trying to fly and Hollis couldn’t help but laugh. In the end, they held the Shady Lady in front of them and let them perch there while they tried to keep flapping as if it were flying.

“Maybe you’re not meant for the air,” Hollis teased and it clicked its beak at them, their firefly eyes glittering.

The damage to their hidden spot wasn’t as bad as they had anticipated. A few of the flowers had been drowned, their leaves and flowers torn apart by rushing water; a few more had their roots exposed by the rains or their stems crushed by the downpour.

Hollis made a face. There was sunlight here, which made it good to plant flowers, but there were also no trees to stop the downpour. A blessing and a curse, though torrential rains such as the one the other night were not so common.

Then of course there would be animals that would wander in to eat the tender shoots. They couldn’t believe that they had forgotten about the fucking _deer_.

“Maybe an enclosure?” Hollis wondered out loud. “Like one of those mesh awnings?” they knelt and gently brushed a waterlogged leaf that hadn’t recovered since the downpour. It would need to be pruned before it rotted and killed the rest of the plant.

If the rest of the plant wasn’t already dead and rotting.

The Shady Lady bobbed its head and turned into a cat. Hollis laughed when it walked like an octopus on land, with a dozen tendrils instead of the four legs it had created.

“Maybe I’ll build a moat,” they joked. “I guess this _isn’t_ a good place for a hideout if it rains. I’ll make little canals to get the drainage to _not_ kill the plants.”

They eyed their little forest space. If they dug a trench beneath the bushes, they could divert it around the edges of the clearing and use the fallen tree to hide the makeshift creek. It probably wouldn’t need to be too deep for it to work, only maybe a foot—they doubted it rained hard enough to cause _too_ much damage.

Except for these storms.

They turned to the Shady Lady. “Were you saying that the storms were caused by the Seraph?”

The Shady Lady turned and nodded its head “yes”. Then it shook its head “no”.

“Yes and no?” Hollis asked dryly and the Shady Lady nodded its head again. “Great.” Pulling out their phone, they snapped a few quick pictures of the area they wanted to put the little canal before nodding. “Alright, let’s head back.”

They held out a hand and the Shady Lady scrambled into it, taking the shape of a turtle.

For a long moment, Hollis stared at it and shook their head. “Okay then.” They put the turtle on their shoulder and began walking. After a few minutes, the Shady Lady tapped Hollis’s shoulder and used a tendril to point to the sky.

It was beginning to grow dark, even at eleven in the morning. Nodding, Hollis began walking faster.

* * *

That evening they met Pod at The Little Dipper for dinner.

“Was it safe?” Pod asked above the noise of the nearby pool tournament, concerned.

Hollis shrugged and took a long drink of their beer—Pod had volunteered to drive and they were taking advantage of the presence of a DD. “Probably not,” they admitted. “But I had…someone with me.”

They regretted the phrasing when Pod’s concern morphed into sly amusement. “Oh?” they pressed, leaning forward over the table. “You had some _company_?”

“Why do I tell you _anything?_ ” Hollis grumbled and drained their beer. “No, I had…you know.”

Pod smirked. “Kirby?” they teased. “Or maybe Jake?” They pretended to gasp as if scandalized. “ _Both?_ ”

Hollis made a rude gesture. “The Shady Lady. I was fine.”

“I’ve seen it get stuck in an open glass jar. I’m not too sure about that.” Despite their teasing, Hollis saw the tension around their eyes drain.

Casting a nervous look around the bar, Hollis shook their head. “We didn’t see anyone or anything. We were fine.”

“For now,” Pod warned. “That thing that’s out there…we don’t know that much about it.”

Their waitress came by with a new beer for Hollis and their appetizers. Whenever they went out, Pod ate like a food critic, frowning down at their plate as they sampled everything, and Hollis was always amused by it.

“They added a new spice to the cheese,” Pod observed distractedly. “Or maybe just a new cheese.”

When Hollis tried a nacho, it tasted the same and they said so. Pod rolled their eyes but it was affectionate. “Is that a new eyeliner?”

Pod leveled an unamused look at Hollis. “Stop trying to distract me,” they said dryly. “Hollis, it’s _dangerous_.”

“Is this the first time there’s been something in the forest?” Hollis shot back. “We can’t keep _hiding_. Surely you must have seen what had happened in town.”

Shaking their head, Pod ate another chip with more ferocity than was warranted. When Hollis opened their mouth to say more, Pod said waspishly, “Not here.”

Surprised, Hollis closed their mouth.

They fell into silence after that, slightly strained after Pod’s outburst.

“This isn’t a good place to talk about it,” Pod sighed after a few minutes of awkwardly picking at the napkin beneath their drink. Around them, the bar erupted into cheers and they turned to find that someone had won the pool match. The loser, a newcomer that Hollis didn’t recognize, threw down their pool stick in frustration.

Hollis kept their eyes on the newcomer as he returned to his group of friends who jeered at him. “Yeah,” they agreed absently and flagged down their waitress. “We should have those burgers to go.”

She made a face, no doubt sensing the same thing that they were, and hurried off. Lips pressed thin, Pod scooped the remainder of their nachos into the container that the waitress brought back, and paid for their bill before Hollis could stop them.

The newcomer was drinking deeply from his pint glass while his friends poured more into plastic cups from the pitcher on their table. His face was red and Hollis sighed.

Compared to the humidity of the bar, the air outside was frigid and they paused beneath the porch, watching the silvery sheets of rain come down. This time it was more natural or seemed to be—Hollis wasn’t sure what to believe after what they had learned earlier that day.

Pod took a deep breath and sighed, a hint of vapor escaping their lips. In the yellow lights outside of The Little Dipper, the unnatural shade of their blue contacts looked ominous. With a click, their umbrella unfolded and they inclined their head as if to say, _well, are you coming?_

They were nearly to the car when something slammed into them from behind, sending the both of them into a grimy puddle. A moment later there was a terrible shriek and the evening—made darker by the thick cloud cover and rain—lit up as if it was noon.

Hollis gasped as they lifted their head out of the water that smelled like engine oil and refuse and turned. The world had a hazy quality lit by pinpoints of light like many-colored fireflies: the Shady Lady.

Through the Shady Lady, The Little Dipper had turned into a corona of light as bright as the sun.

Beside them, Pod sputtered and coughed. “Get in the car,” they gasped. “Hollis, get in the car.”

Hollis stared as light bloomed inside the bar, visible even through the tinted windows. People were outlined, smeared silhouettes, before they were consumed; the windows exploded.

They stared blankly at the shards of glass hanging in midair—stopped by the Shady Lady.

Something grabbed them by the back of their jacket and hauled them to their feet. “Get in the car,” Pod hissed and they scrambled to obey. More people were following their lead: a group of ten Hornets were already mounted on their bikes, starting the engines frantically and hurrying away from the blaze.

Hollis had just thrown themselves in the car—for once ignoring that they were soaking wet, that their boots were filled with dirty parking lot water from their tumble into the puddle—when a figure appeared on the roof of The Little Dipper.

A figure that looked like the crude drawings that the Shady Lady had drawn earlier, like the image that it had formed in its ink-like body.

A figure that looked like the half-glimpsed thing that Hollis had seen in the trees the other night.

The car lurched as it stalled out and Pod swore, starting it again. It lurched again and Pod started the car a second time. Hollis couldn’t even find it in themselves to chide Pod, to tease that they would ruin the transmission if they kept stalling out.

Still swearing, Pod got the car in gear and began to drive away and Hollis continued to stare at the glowing figure. Above the wild, staticky hiss of the radio station—rasping about storms and high winds and emergency preparedness—Hollis thought that they heard a noise. They certainly felt it, like a shiver in the air.

Like what they imagined whale song to feel like, a great roar of noise that wasn’t heard, only felt through every bone and muscle in their body.

The figure on top of The Little Dipper extended its three pairs of wings and glowed brighter for it; the body it was hiding was brighter, gold-edged white fire as brilliant as the sun.

Then it leaped like a diving hawk right for them.

A shadow like a black mist edged with starlight caught it in midair and when it landed, the puddles around it exploded into steam.

Then Pod turned a corner and the thick tree cover obscured their view save for the hellish light it cast on the trees around them.

* * *

They both stiffened in instinctive alarm—and a dose of fear that made them lightheaded—when their bedroom echoed with the sound of sirens.

But the cars didn’t stop and even through the distant hiss of the rain, Boyd could hear the roar of their engines, the rasp of their tires on the road. He leaped out of bed despite Ned’s protests and thrust open the curtains, watching in silence as a first responder vehicle zoomed past, followed by the town’s biggest firetruck. The driver yanked on the horn, which roared in the silence cast by the storm.

It was followed by another firetruck and two more first responder vehicles—one with the hospital, another with the fire department—and an ambulance.

The lights continued to color the trees macabre blue-white-red long after they passed from Boyd’s sight; he could still hear their eerie wails and shivered.

“What happened, do you think?” Boyd asked quietly.

Ned had climbed out of bed, something strange in his eyes. “I need to go,” he said, far grimmer than Boyd was used to hearing from his lover.

For a long moment he watched Ned as he dressed.

 _Like he was going to war_ , Boyd realized. _He’s dressing as if he was going to war_.

“You had nothing to do with this, did you?” Boyd asked quietly.

Ned paused. “No,” he said at last but it didn’t sound like he believed it.

Looking back out the window, Boyd saw that the horizon was orange, as if the sun was rising. The garish green numerals on the clock display reminded him that it was barely even eight at night.

Boyd caught Ned’s arm when he moved past him to open the drawer. “Ned,” he said quietly. “What happened?”

For a long, uncomfortable moment it looked like Ned wouldn’t answer. His jaw moved as if he chewed on his words to keep them from escaping. “I can’t tell you,” Ned said at last. “I didn’t do…that.” He gestured vaguely at the window. “But I need to stop it.”

“This has something to do with the fire earlier,” Boyd murmured. “They’re connected.”

When Ned pulled away, Boyd let him. He watched his lover grimly pull something out of the bedside table, which he shoved in his pants. “Stay here,” Ned told Boyd and leaned in for a kiss that tasted too final for Boyd’s liking. “I’ll be back.”

 _I hope_.

Boyd watched Ned leave the bedroom and heard him pulling on his shoes in the other room. He looked out the window again, his eyes on that hellish red-orange-gold glow in the distance.

A pinpoint of light shot into the air like a firework. At the highest point of its arc it hung in midair and moved across the sky in an eerily—and entirely unnatural—flat line. Then it angled downward into a steep dive and disappeared into the dark sea of trees.

Mouth dry, Boyd stared at the place that the light disappeared.

Hearing Ned’s stupid truck start, he craned his head, pressing his cheek against the glass to watch him pull out of his stall and begin to drive. Ominously, the streetlights were reflecting on the wet sides of the Crepes by Monica/Cryptonomica truck.

He was relieved to see that Ned didn’t turn in the same direction that the emergency vehicles went, but knew that it didn’t mean much.

As clearly as if someone had told him, he knew that Ned would eventually go there.

And he knew that he was going elsewhere—he was going into the forest.

Swallowing, Boyd looked back at the trees. The false sunrise was still there and the light that had fallen into the trees had not resurfaced. He fixed the spot that he had seen it disappear into his mind and hurried to get dressed as well.

* * *

Duck woke up to flailing arms and wings that shoved him out of bed. “The _fuck_?” he demanded, more alarmed than annoyed.

When he sat up, he found that Indrid was still flailing, his wings beating sporadically and Duck managed to catch the bedside lamp before it fell on his chest, knocked over by a gust of wind from those enormous wings.

As suddenly as it had happened, Indrid settled down. If an enormous moth creature could look terrified, he would. “ _Fire_ ,” he said urgently to Duck. “ _The Little Dipper_.”

Swearing, Duck scrambled to his feet and began yanking on his clothes. A fire was one thing; that it was bad enough that Indrid felt the need to send him out was another. “Should I get Leo?”

Indrid was clutching his head with two of his hands and his enormous wings were flared. They were trembling.

Despite the severity of the situation, Duck grabbed Beacon with one hand and cupped Indrid’s face with the other, pressing a kiss between his feathery antennae.

He was immediately grabbed with Indrid’s second set of arms and dragged close; Indrid buried his face in Duck’s chest and only that close could Duck hear the little distressed noises that Indrid was making. Though he couldn’t hear the words, swallowed by Indrid’s mandibles and the way they were pressed against Duck’s chest, he knew that Indrid was repeating the same phrase over and over.

 _Be safe, be safe, be safe, be safe_.

Whatever it was, it scared Indrid and that scared Duck more than anything else.

He swallowed hard. “I’ll be back,” he promised, unknowingly echoing Ned’s words.

 _I hope_ , he didn’t say but both of them heard, as Boyd had across town.

“Fire,” Indrid groaned and released Duck. “Go!”

For once Beacon had no snide comment for him.

Duck went.

* * *

Stern was opening the door to go downstairs when an orange glow filled his room. Whirling in alarm, he found that the creepy Bigfoot painting was _on fire_ , had fucking spontaneously combusted.

With a yell, Stern yanked the comforter off of the bed and tried to smother the flames.

When he cautiously pulled the comforter back, he found that the painting was still intact though the image had been replaced by a dark void like the night sky. He touched the canvas and found it just as sturdy, the staples and balsa wood backing still intact.

Flipping the painting back over, he looked at the void and the splatter of light spots in blues and purples and golds like a distant nebula. It was smooth, as if coated with some kind of gloss or polished lacquer.

Swallowing hard, Stern put the painting in the bathtub in case it tried to spontaneously combust again, tying the shower curtain and liner up and away from it.

He slowly backed out of his room and closed the door, inclined to believe that he had imagined the entire thing.

“Oh no!” someone gasped and Stern turned to find Dani, her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were on Stern’s hands and he looked down. “Agent Stern, what happened to your hands?”

Only then did he realize that he had burned himself, his skin from fingertip to elbow red and blistered. So, it had been real.

His knees buckled.

* * *

Tamo’s hands were shaking.

 _It’s shock_ , they told themselves, feeling strangely detached as they watched them tremble. _It’s from gripping the steering wheel too hard_.

They picked up the ladle and dipped it too quickly into the pot on the stove. The liquid splashed and Tamo hissed when a few droplets hit their hand. Tipping the ladle so that it slid smoothly beneath the surface, they stirred the mixture.

As the liquid settled, they caught sight of their reflection. It was distorted by the ripples of the simmering soup and the faint, silvery sheen of oil but was still horrifying to see: a nebulous shape cast in shadow by the light above the stove, their eyes appearing sunken and their skin burned.

 _Enough_.

Tamo turned off the stove and ladled out bowls of soup which they carried out into their living room. The Hornets were gathered there, a miserable looking bunch wrapped in every towel and flat sheet that Tamo could find in their apartment. No doubt the smell of water would linger for a long time, but Tamo couldn’t find it in themselves to think too much of it.

“I don’t think I can stomach anything,” one of the Hornets said and Tamo was startled to recognize Novoa. He seemed to have sunken in on himself, his enormous shoulders bowed as his head hung low. Junk Rat was nowhere to be seen.

“Eat,” Hollis said roughly.

“It’s a light broth,” Tamo said quietly. “Vegetable with winter melon.”

Tamo brought out more bowls and spoons. They came back with every mug in their apartment which they filled with hot cocoa.

“What happened?” a Hornet that Tamo wasn’t familiar with asked. Maybe she was new.

Novoa, who sat next to her, said, “We should have stayed. Not run. There could be people that are injured. We could have done something.”

“Leaving was the right course of action,” another argued. “Didn’t you see it? Didn’t you see what happened? It wasn’t safe there. Let the police and fire department handle it.”

Hollis had seen it and Tamo looked at them. After an event like this—no matter the true cause—sanity was in a precarious balance. Would Hollis say anything?

“Fuck,” another Hornet said. If it wasn’t for the unwieldy brace on his leg, Tamo wouldn’t have recognized Keith. “This is going to sound crazy but…I think I saw it.”

That got everyone’s attention. Hollis’s back straightened.

“I was walking around the side,” Keith said and picked up the bowl of soup in front of him. “Saw someone coming out of the trees near the back lot. Only…if it was ‘someone’, then they’re already dead.” He shook his head and his breath hitched. “They were _on fire_.”

Hollis nodded slowly and Tamo watched them. “I saw it too,” they said softly. “I thought that I was imagining things.”

“What did you see?” Novoa asked.

Hollis and Keith both hesitated. “A winged man,” Tamo said. “With six extended wings. Made of fire.”

The mere thought had ice forming in their gut again and they swallowed. The Seraph had dived at them like a hawk and the Shady Lady had caught it.

They hadn’t heard from it since. Logically they knew that it would take the Shady Lady some time to return to their apartment, that it had stayed behind to buy time for them to escape, but they couldn’t help but wonder.

Wonder and worry and hope that the Seraph hadn’t burned it out of existence.

It had already been some time—Hollis had insisted on speaking with the police immediately and once their statement had been taken, they had all left. They had all gone to Tamo’s apartment to regroup. Surely they should have seen it by now?

What if the Seraph’s fires had won?

The thought was a terrifying one. The Seraph had set The Little Dipper on fire like it was a cotton ball soaked in kerosene—what could it have done to the Shady Lady?

 _Don’t think of that, Tamo_ , they told themselves sternly. _Don’t think of such things without proof_.

Ducking into the kitchen, they poured hot cocoa into a glass and added more Irish whiskey than they should; they drowned it in a few big gulps, ignoring the heat of the cocoa and the burn of the liquor.

From the other room, they heard Keith say, “This isn’t the first time it’s happened.”

Tamo made a face where they couldn’t see. No doubt Hollis now remembered their conversation but thankfully said nothing of it in front of the rest of the group.

“Tell me,” they ordered and Tamo stood in the kitchen, listening as Keith talked about a woman that cast fire from her fingertips.

The same woman who had found them after the incident at The Little Dipper, after the police had taken their statement. Tamo looked at Hollis and saw exactly when the pieces fell into place for them as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know! You can find me here or on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). 
> 
> ~DC

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to have a semi-decent posting schedule for this but I can't guarantee it. Work might be changing my hours, and I have a few projects I need to actually finish up because they have those pesky things called _deadlines_ , and these are some of the things that might affect how often this updates. 
> 
> However, i doubt [Fai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaHae/pseuds/FaiaHae/works) will let me forget about it so there's that at least. 
> 
> Feel free to come and yell at me on twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). If that's not your thing, I can also be found on tumblr at [ClassyWastelandBread](https://classywastelandbread.tumblr.com/) but I haven't been quite as active there. 
> 
> ~DC


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